


if only i could not see it

by cakesnake, nosecoffee, shinelikestars



Category: Dear Evan Hansen - Pasek & Paul/Levenson
Genre: An It AU written by three people who've never read It, Anxiety, Black Comedy, Bland Humour, Blood, Blood and Gore, Body Horror, Childhood Trauma, Depression, Dissociation, Does Stephen King Exist In This AU?, F/F, Fear, Finally, Fluff, Forgive Me, Gore, Guilt, Hallucinations, Heidi is best mom, Horror, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, IT AU, Insomnia, Intrusive Thoughts, Let's All Rip Off Stephen King, M/M, New Conspiracy: Connor didn't finish the milk, Paranoia, Paranormal, Pining, Please stay safe, Quoting Songs By Our Favourite Bands, Soft Pining, Supernatural - Freeform, That's right, The Amazing Asshole Jared Kleinman, The Author Regrets Everything, The Author Regrets Nothing, The Loser Club, There's some soft tags here, Trauma, Unapologetic Song References, Unapologetic Stephen King References, What Even Is Reality?, You Decide, blood blood gallons of the stuff, but it's still all in third person, character 'POV' changes, dark humour, listen, shortlived pining, so many trigger warnings, the kids aren't alright, the long awaited fluff we needed in this au, third person, we started writing this two days ago and had two days of planning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-11
Updated: 2017-08-23
Packaged: 2018-11-29 10:28:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 20
Words: 91,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11438958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cakesnake/pseuds/cakesnake, https://archiveofourown.org/users/nosecoffee/pseuds/nosecoffee, https://archiveofourown.org/users/shinelikestars/pseuds/shinelikestars
Summary: "I saw..." Evan's chest goes tight, out of nowhere, the sensation of not being able to breathe utterly terrifying."Evan?" The doctor with the glasses prompts.He takes a deep breath to steady himself before his next words, the words that leave the doctors chuckling and his mother reeling."I saw a clown."(An It AU)





	1. prologue: the monster that i knew

**Author's Note:**

> Whassup, it's nose-coffee, here with an AU that you didn't ask for, but definitely needed, if you're into horror, or whatever. Just before you start, I got some trigger warnings, just to keep y'all safe, because the last thing my coauthors and I want is for this fic to inconvenience you/trigger you.
> 
> Blood  
> Blatant horror  
> Body horror  
> Minor character death  
> Hallucinations
> 
> As for the character featured in this chapter, you will notice that he is not one mentioned in the musical. That's because he's not from the musical. He's a character from the novel, Adrian Mellon, who is killed near the start of the book. We thought it would be a nice tribute to the novel if we referenced a wildly unknown character, for the start of our story.
> 
> Story title from 'Letters' from Natasha, Pierre, and the Great Comet of 1812
> 
> Chapter title from 'Requiem' from Dear Evan Hansen
> 
> Now, please stay safe, let us know if there's something we missed, and please, enjoy.

1986

Thunder rumbles in the distance, lightning flashes so bright that it illuminates the canopies of the trees outside, and the rain patters louder. _The wind must be moving fast,_ Adrian Mellon thinks to himself, fumbling with the window latch, _the storm must be coming in at record speed._ He can't even see the moon anymore. He wishes he hadn't let his parents go out without him.

It sounds like the storm of the fucking century, outside.

Adrian sprints into the next room, ignoring the ominous creaking of the floorboards in his house, from under his own feet, and from places far away in the house. He doesn't want to think about it, as he finishes up with the latch, letting the blind fall closed. The more secure the house, the better.

If he dies now...If he dies _tonight..._

Adrian squeezes his fists tightly. _No._

He won’t think about it. If he thinks about it, it just gets more real.

But, if he dies tonight, he'll never graduate middle school. Fourteen seems way too young to die. Isn't it?

Isn't there a Billy Joel song about that? _Only the good die young?_ That sounds right.

Is he good? Does he even qualify? If he's bad, will it spare him? Does he even have time to be bad? What does that constitute?

Adrian leaves the train of thought alone, lets it derail. It'll just get worse if he thinks like that.

Adrian walks into the bathroom and climbs up on the toilet to jiggle at the lock. It holds fast.

At least there's that.

Adrian doesn't even remember how it started.

No. That's a _lie._ He knows.

Or, thinks he does.

Thinks it maybe started at the orchard. He and some friends, exploring the orchard, much too big to be safe, and stumbling on a dried out creek bed. And stumbling on a dead willow. And stumbling on a drainpipe, directly below the willow.

Adrian doesn't remember ever seeing that tree before. Doesn't remember there being a creek off this way. Thinks it must be a trick of the light, or an effect of the heat, or _something._

Adrian remembers daring a friend of his to go in. Remembers whispering to his other friends as they ran away, leaving him behind in the drainpipe, none the wiser that they had done so.

Doesn't remember the last time he saw that friend. Remembers waiting around in the reception in the parking lot, on his bike, waiting for his friend to come running, yelling at them about leaving him behind. But he never did.

So, they left.

Adrian remembers when they went to the cinema with the allowance Adrian had gotten, a week later, and remembers breaking for the toilet because _Aliens_ is honestly really fucking scary. Remembers walking into the bathroom and hearing soft sobbing. Remembers pushing open the cubicle door to find a boy, curled up between the wall and the toilet, sobbing and holding out his hands. Remembers the chipped black nail polish on his nails; remembers the long hair, hanging in front of his sightless, bloodshot eyes; remembers the black clothes.

 _“Zoe?”_ The boy had sobbed, hand whipping around blindly. Flexing and closing and opening sporadically, waiting for someone to take it. _“Evan? Where'd you go? Why aren't you here? You promised you'd stay. Where are you?”_

Adrian had blinked, the lights flickered on and off, and the boy was gone. Disappeared from sight in the blink of an eye.

Adrian ran back to the cinema. It was much scarier in the bathroom, apparently.

Adrian remembers driving home from his grandparents house, on his birthday, looking out the window, and seeing a girl. Tall, dirty blonde hair, blank eyes, overalls. But the most frightening thing about this girl, was her hands. The fact that her fingers were almost gone, the bone worn down, dried and crusty blood at her knuckles. A broken guitar by her bare feet. She watched him, eyes locked with his as the car passed. Adrian’s parents didn't seem to see her.

Adrian swallowed and tore his eyes away.

Then there was the boy at the window. English class had been beyond boring, and then Adrian just happened to glance out the window, a glance that bounced off the clock that ticked two minutes too slow, and stopped dead at the image of a boy on the other side of the glass. He was wearing a blue polo shirt, a long, jagged scar on his left arm drawing attention away from his blank face. The boy had one palm pressed to it, the other knocking softly, steadily, rhythmically. It echoed in the near silent classroom, on the offbeat of the tick of the clock.

The boy stared at Adrian. It was like he was trying to warn him.

But of _what?_

Adrian never found out, because the bell rang, and the knocking boy disappeared.

Ever since then, he's known better than to just lounge around, unafraid of the dark and the quiet. Something is terribly wrong, if it's quiet.

That's when Adrian realises his big mistake. That's when Adrian remembers that he hasn't locked the back door. Ice crashes through his veins, like rocky rapids, like a bucket of water over his head, chills running down his spine, and he only hopes that he has enough time to correct himself.

Hopes he has enough time to _lock the back door._

Adrian sprints out into the hallway, and down the stairs, skipping every second stair, nearly tumbling down them in his haste. He stops dead, at the bottom, staring, and attempts to swallow a frightened and startled gasp. He fails. It still, somehow, forces its way up his throat.

This has got to be, by far, the worst thing It’s sent him.

There's a girl in the doorway. She's wearing a flannel button-up pyjama top, with matching pants, and round spectacles. Her hair, pretty little braids, is pulled up into a ponytail off the back of her head. Her feet are bare. And she is drenched in blood. It seems to seep from her very pores, drip from between her teeth, run down her skin as it escapes from her tear ducts.

She is beautiful and terrifying, the red, red of her blood a scary contrast to the dark of the hallway, and the dark of her skin. Her mouth quirks. Not happily, not sadly, just blankly.

 _“We all float down here.”_ The girl tells him. Adrian glances past her, over her shoulder, sees the latch of the back door, and thinks that if he just pushes her out of the way, but, then again, he's never spoken to one of them before. Maybe he can spare some time?

“What does that mean?” Adrian asks. The girl cocks her head to the side. The blood begins to pool at her feet, causing a sickening puddle on the floorboards.

She doesn't answer, just repeats, _“We all float down here.”_

"Who are you?” Adrian questions. He has to know. She looks other-worldly. Adrian has to know her name. Her name at the very least.

 _“We all float down here.”_ The girl chants, and lets her head loll, looking at the floor. Adrian follows her gaze, suddenly calm in her presence. A small rivulet of blood runs across the floor, and joins the puddle at her feet. The rivulet runs between his toes. It runs down his leg. It runs from a gash in his chest. Adrian feels an ache there. _When…?_ The blood flow gets faster, heavier, running down him faster and faster, the puddle of blood getting larger and larger. Adrian doesn't know what exactly he's afraid of, but he's certainly horrified at this sudden, inexplicable turn of events.

He looks up and the girl is staring at him, a fearful expression on her face, terror in her eyes. Blood drips into her eye. She makes no move to get rid of it.

 _"Who's laughing?”_ She whispers, and her gaze flicks to something over his shoulder. This act makes Adrian remember why he ran, in the first place. The back door is hanging open, over her shoulder. His stomach drops, and his eyes widen, and Adrian has no time to scream as the girl disappears and the feeling of something vital yet not entirely physical of his is ripped from his body begins. Adrian falls to his knees, his Levi’s splashing in the puddle of his own blood. He can't _breathe._ Something is being taken from him, violently. Selfishly. He wants to fight it. Knows there's nothing solid for him to fight.

He longs for the times when he wasn't afraid. Longs for his parents and their hugs and their kind words and their love. The bright sun in the meadow near the middle of the orchard, where he lay, reading books, where he grew up; and the scary movies with his friends; and riding his bike home in the rain.

The lights flicker on, and then off again, laughter that he doesn't recognise ringing in his ears, and Adrian has a feeling of emptiness inside him, before he flops to the floor, face in the puddle of blood on the ground. He can taste the blood in his mouth. His vision begins to fade, going fuzzy and dark, through the one eye that isn't clouded by the blood he's lying in. Adrian wonders why the girl wasn't bothered by the blood in her eye.

He takes a ragged breath that something deep in the back of his mind knows is his last, and watches the soft orange light in the dark fade, just as he does.

Adrian never screams for help.

The lights flick out, and all is silent. The back door squeals in protest against the strong breeze as the wind slams it closed, again.

The storm seems to ease up, the sky appeased, the monster returns home.

Chaos caused, feeding done, and not a single eyewitness.

Except, for a little blonde girl on a little red bike. Twelve year-old Heidi Hansen watches the lights in the house flick off for the last time, feels a rush of wind blow past her at impossibly high speeds, hears a familiar yet unknown laughter in the air, cutting off, and she slams on the brakes.


	2. one: tap tap tapping on the glass

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Evan squirms, knowing Jared will be texting him in all caps any second now, but his mother’s grip only relaxes slightly.
> 
> “Just one sec, Ev.” She pulls her hand away, sensing her son’s discomfort, but keeps her gaze on him. “Look, I know what’s been in the news lately has been really scary, but try not to let it get to you too much, okay, hon? You’re safe — I won’t let anything happen to you,” she promises.
> 
> Evan’s heart sinks at her words. He wants to believe her, more than anything he’s ever wanted in his life, but he just — he just can’t. Not when she’s always at work, always saving other people’s lives and trying to forget how much her own has fallen apart, always there and never home. Not when he’s been haunted by something he can’t even explain for years already, years he wishes he could just erase, and she’s never been able to protect him from that.
> 
> He’s not safe. And too much has happened to him already.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: gore, anxiety, mentions of pills, hints at suicidal ideation, body horror
> 
> chapter title from "waving through a window" from dear evan hansen (way out there, i know)
> 
> a huge thanks to nose-coffee and HamiltonTrash for being actual angels and including me in this. they're amazing authors and working with them is such a pleasure, they are truly incredible.
> 
> now, without further ado, let's get this show on the road.

_one._

2006

"Evan?  Evan, honey, the doctors are here.”

 

Evan blinks once, twice, three times, the world slowly coming into focus around him. He’s in a hospital room, he knows that much, the walls almost blindingly white and the scent of antiseptic burning his nose. He glances down, heart starting to race when he spots the thick bandages wrapped around his left arm, the beginnings of a dull ache stirring there. 

 

“ _Evan_.” At the sound of his mother’s voice, Evan tears his gaze from his injured limb, eyes centering on the kind face he’s always known. Something’s trying to tug him into sleep, leaving him more than a little hazy, but Evan does his best to fight it for his mom, especially as three white-coated men march into the room. In the back of his mind, he wonders where his dad is. Hadn’t they just been playing with his boat a little while ago? He remembers that much.

 

“Hello, Evan. We were wondering if you could tell us what you saw,” the shortest of the three says. His wire-rimmed glasses kind of remind Evan of his friend Jared’s dad, and the comfort of that puts his mind more at ease. 

 

Evan hesitates, gears in his brain turning furiously as he tries so hard to understand what the doctor is talking about. “What I saw?”

 

“In the drain,” another doctor, this one balding and portly, interjects. “What did you see?” 

 

Evan’s entire body flinches at the mention of the drain, and suddenly, images flash before his eyes, crystal-clear and only increasing in scariness. His little paper boat, the one Dad had made for him just that morning out of yesterday’s newspaper, swept up in runoff from last night’s rain and tumbling into the storm drain. A shock of red hair, in sharp contrast to the stark whiteness of the face below it. A kind smile, a whispered promise. A hand, reaching out into the dark. High-pitched screams, piercing the quiet calmness of the street. 

 

Claws, sharp and gleaming and _digging_ — no, not digging, _tearing_ into him, slicing soft skin into ribbons, sending scarlet spraying into the air. White-hot agony all up and down his arm, the distinct rip of muscle or maybe a tendon (his mom’s tried to teach him the difference, but Evan’s still working on that), the snap of bone. An awful feeling of breathlessness, throat closing up, wanting to shout for his mom _so so_ badly but nothing coming out at all. Silence on his end.

 

He hadn’t made a sound. His arm twinges at the thought.

 

Evan doesn’t want to tell them. They’ll call him pathetic, ask how hard it really could be to call for help, scold him for being so dumb as to reach into a storm drain after a silly little toy. Remind him how lucky he is that his mom was already on her way over when the attack happened, even though the new flood of memories have already done a stellar job of getting that through his head. “I… I don’t really think it’s i-i-important?” He struggles to get the words out, something that’s never happened to him before (au contraire, his father always complains about Evan talking too much), and his mom looks slightly worried.

 

“Well, Mr. Hansen, whatever it was nearly ripped your arm off,” the balding doctor scoffs. “You’re lucky to have escaped with a break and some moderate tissue damage. _I_ think it’s important.” 

 

“I saw…” Evan’s chest goes tight out of nowhere, and one of his bedside monitors beeps as his heart rate spikes, the sensation of not being able to breathe utterly terrifying. 

 

“Evan?” the doctor with the glasses prompts.

 

“It’s okay, honey,” his mother says, hurrying to his side and placing a calming hand on his good arm, rubbing soothing circles into his skin. “You tell them what you told me earlier, before the nice nurse gave you those meds that made you pass out.”

 

Tears spill down Evan’s cheeks, pain flaring in his arm, but the pressure in his chest has eased at his mother’s touch, and he takes a deep breath to steady himself before his next words, the words that leave the doctors chuckling and his mother reeling.

 

“I saw a clown.” 

 

2016

The orange and white pill bottle feels so impossibly heavy in Evan’s hand. He doesn’t know why his daily morning ritual is so difficult today — why today, the first day of school, of all days — but he just keeps staring at it, then at the ugly, puckered white scar that winds its way down his left arm, accentuated by smaller streaks of ruined tissue, not fully covered by his favorite striped blue polo. He looks at the bottle, the label that reads “Xanax”, then back at the scar, then back to the pills, and finally back at the scar again.

 

“Evan! C’mon, sweetie, you don’t wanna be late for your first day!” his mother calls from downstairs. She sounds tired, exhaustion creeping into her voice, and Evan knows she’s probably worn out, having just arrived home from her graveyard shift at the ER.

 

His mother’s words break his strange near-trance, and Evan shakes his head, disappointed with himself already as he screws the cap off, pours one white pill into his hand, and downs it dry. He doesn’t even have time to get the cap back on as he hears Jared honking his horn from the street, here to pick him up for school, and Evan hastily shoves the pills into his desk drawer before he’s off, grabbing his worn backpack and rushing down the stairs, nearly tripping as he does so.

 

His mom stops him as he reaches the kitchen, wrapping a hand around his elbow to slow him down. “Here’s your lunch, sweetie,” she says, handing him a brown paper bag with his name scrawled on it. 

 

“Thanks, Mom.” Evan squirms, knowing Jared will be texting him in all caps any second now, but his mother’s grip only relaxes slightly.

 

“Just one sec, Ev.” She pulls her hand away, sensing her son’s discomfort, but keeps her gaze on him. “Look, I know what’s been in the news lately has been really scary, but try not to let it get to you too much, okay, hon? You’re safe — I won’t let anything happen to you,” she promises.

 

Evan’s heart sinks at her words. He _wants_ to believe her, more than anything he’s ever wanted in his life, but he just — he just can’t. Not when she’s always at work, always saving other people’s lives and trying to forget how much her own has fallen apart, always there and never home. Not when he’s been haunted by something he can’t even explain for years already, years he wishes he could just erase, and she’s never been able to protect him from that.

 

He’s not safe. And too much has happened to him already.

 

He mumbles something like _“I know”_ , lets her press a kiss to his forehead, then shoots out the door like a bolt of lightning, panting by the time he reaches Jared’s dented brown sedan. 

 

It’s their last first day of school, the both of them seniors, and _that’s_ really what they should be discussing — but, no, Jared just _has_ to bring up the crap from the news, that story about the girl found dead in the apple orchard a few days ago. “I mean, Jesus, are we all gonna pretend that doesn’t sound like the beginning of a really shitty horror movie?” he chuckles, coasting right through a red light. Evan curls in on himself and decides he very much wants out of this car.

 

“Or maybe it’s a conspiracy,” Jared continues, now going a good twenty miles over the speed limit. When Evan doesn’t respond, he glances over at him, eyes bright with enthusiasm. “Evan, I want to believe.”

 

“Jared, a girl _died_ ,” Evan mutters. “Don’t joke about that.”

 

“It’s a government coverup! Listen, Evan, you know I’m right,” Jared insists. 

 

“Be serious, Jared.” Evan winces as Jared makes a turn fast enough to nearly flip the car.

 

“I _am_ being serious, Evan.” His friend’s voice has taken on a sharper tone, and Evan prays he hasn’t somehow upset him. “Just because I’m not outright crying because some girl no one fucking knew stole her dad’s gun and killed herself in the old orchard, it doesn’t mean I’m not very aware that this is the scariest thing to happen in Cloverport since Adrian Mellon died.” 

 

Evan’s heart stops beating for a second, wind knocked out of him in a way he doesn’t understand by the mention of the dead boy’s name, and when he manages to regain his breath, he can barely muster up the strength to choke out, “Can we not talk about this anymore?”

 

Jared laughs. “Sure, Acorn,” he smirks, and if the other boy weren’t driving right now, Evan would be tempted to strangle him.

 

“I broke my arm a year ago, Jared, when are you going to stop calling me that?” he hisses.

 

Jared simply shrugs, and they lapse into silence at that, Evan staring out the window at the trees blurring past as he attempts to convince himself of a fantasy that will never become reality. _Dear Evan Hansen_ , he thinks, _this is gonna be a good year, and here’s why: you’re not gonna let It get to you anymore. You’ll be stronger this year. Better. And It won’t be able to hurt you. It’ll never hurt you again._

 

He almost believes himself, and it’s a beautiful moment of hope, a tiny smile spreading across his face at the idea of a year filled with happiness and courage, two things Evan’s never been all that familiar with.

 

Then he swears he catches a shard of glass glinting in the middle of the road, a shard of glass that should pierce Jared’s tires and leave them stranded in seconds, and a lump forms at the back of Evan’s throat as he prays to hear a _pop_ or feel a thump or watch the car start to skid, _anything_ to show him that the glass is real.

 

They drive right over it, and nothing happens.

 

Evan’s stomach twists, arm lighting with phantom pain, as the truth of the year hits him.

 

He’s going to have to deal with It.

 

——

Evan’s pretty sure that Jared can’t go five seconds without being an asshole in some way, and he’s convinced of this suspicion when Jared, minutes before their first class of the day, calls out to Connor Murphy in the hallway. “Hey, Connor! Lovin’ the new hair length — very, uh, school-shooter-chic,” he says, the pure nastiness of it leaving Evan’s chest in knots.

 

Evan, a lot of the time, wishes his friend would just shut up. This is definitely one of those times, every cell in Evan’s body cringing in sympathy at the brief flash of pure agony on Connor’s face, a kind of hurt that he knows all too well. Connor hides it expertly, covering his true reaction quickly with a mask of cool irritation, eyes flinty as he glares at the both of them. “It was a joke,” Jared says slowly, backing away a bit from the boy dubbed their school’s _“ticking time bomb”_. “I was joking.”

 

Connor’s hair falls into his eyes, and he doesn’t bother to push it out of the way as he deadpans, “No, I know. It was funny. I’m laughing.” Evan’s heart feels in danger of bursting when the taller boy steps closer to them and snarls, “Am I not laughing hard enough for you?”

 

“You’re such a freak,” Jared retorts, nerves clear as day, before turning his back and walking off. They were supposed to head to class together, but obviously Jared’s abandoned that plan to avoid getting his ass beat for being a dick, Evan thinks bitterly, watching his friend’s figure retreat, a mixture of anxiety and anger causing his stomach to clench.

 

He turns back to Connor, a million different things that he could say, a thousand kinds of apologies, a hundred varieties of promises all racing through his brain, but the other boy’s already left, and Evan can’t really blame him for that. 

 

He walks to class alone, and does his best to ignore the smooth voice that whispers in his ear, _You’ll be at the receiving end of one of Jared’s jokes, sooner or later. If you just disappeared, you wouldn’t have to wait for that day to come. That day would never come at all._

 

Evan bites his lip until he bleeds, because he knows it’s right.

 

——

Evan can’t even make it through the school day without an attack, and he hates himself for that. 

 

He’s in third period AP English Literature when it happens, that voice curling up in his ear and murmuring in a sing-song kind of way, _Just leave, Evan. Skip the rest of the day and go home. Figure out how to make yourself disappear, so you won’t end up like that Connor kid. So you won’t have to feel the pain that he does._

 

Evan panics, because this was supposed to be a _good_ year, and his hand shoots into the air on reflex. He just manages to ask permission for a bathroom pass, legs carrying him as far as the hallway by the computer lab before they collapse out from under him and he sinks onto his knees, quietly pleading with something he can’t even see as the world goes shiny before his eyes.

 

The glass box he detests more than anything encases him in seconds. Evan wishes it would just shatter one day and bury its pieces in his skin, maybe slice his jugular if he’s lucky. 

 

But he doesn’t get lucky, and he’s forced to watch the people passing by, occasionally giving him a sideways glance but, as always, oblivious to his plight. Tears begin to stream down his cheeks, nose wet with snot, as he cries, shakes, _begs_. “Let me out,” he whispers, “let me out let me out _letmeout_!”

 

The edges of his vision become dotted with black, and Evan’s vaguely aware that he’s on the verge of passing out.

 

Until he catches a glimpse of purple.

 

_Purple?_ he thinks, and yup, purple it is, a royal purple backpack appearing on the ground just beyond the box. 

 

A hand brushes his cheek, and Evan nearly sobs with relief as the glass cracks and dissipates.

 

Alana Beck, their class’s president and future valedictorian, is the owner of the purple backpack, and her dark eyes are staring into his, something like sympathy written all over her face as she places a hand on his shoulder. Evan can’t stop himself from flinching at the sudden contact. 

 

“Evan, are you okay?” she asks, calm and quiet. Evan would almost call the look in her eyes one of recognition, like she’s familiar with the blatant fear radiating off of him, but she can’t possibly understand. She’s Alana Beck — she’s pretty much perfect. How would she ever comprehend what he’s been through, what he _still_ goes through? She’ll probably call him crazy.

 

“Y-you wouldn’t understand,” he stammers out. “I can’t — you’ll laugh at me.” 

 

Alana raises a brow and gets on her knees, edging closer to him. 

 

“Try me,” she says, and Evan hopes beyond hope he isn’t dreaming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading. comments and feedback are much appreciated, and if i've made an error, please let me know. i hope you enjoyed!
> 
> xo,  
> L


	3. two: every time you call out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The look in his eyes changes, there's something new in them, a sort of light, and she thinks it's hope. 
> 
> “I- I don't know, Alana,” he starts, stuttering and looking around the hallway with wary eyes. “I don't think- you won't believe me-” 
> 
> She laughs darkly, and looks down. “I know more than you think about not being believed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, it HamiltonTrash, your last co-author. And it's time for some content warnings: Blood. That's it, but there is a lot of it, so if you're squeamish, I'm sorry. 
> 
> Chapter title from 'You Will Be Found'. I had to use some lyrics sung by Alana. I love her, truly, madly, deeply. 
> 
> Thank you to my @nosecoffee for coming up with this idea, and to @ls201 for not running to the hills screaming when I suggested it to her. Both of these people are incredible, and you should check out their solo works. They're amazing! 
> 
> Anyways, here wonderwall.

_two._

2011

She's screaming, oh god, she's screaming so loudly, and she has to have woken up her parents and Jordan by now with her screaming, but the _blood_ -

Oh god, the blood was still filling the room, pooling in the floor, making her feet disgustingly sticky with the congealing nature of the stuff, and she wants to know how to stop it, oh my god, and she just wants it to stop- stop- stop- stop- _stop_ -

It's supposed to be a normal morning, she's supposed to be calm, up early for school, but waking up with stickiness on her inner thighs and her sheets stained, had ruined that. Instead she had panicked and locked herself away in the bathroom to clean herself up, mortified at the thought of having to tell her mother she had stained her sheets, mortified at the thought of telling her mother that she had got her first period.

_And then._

And then. She was readying the shower to try and get rid of the disgusting feeling on her skin, the feeling of sweat, and red, the icky feeling of blood on skin, when all of a sudden the water turns rust coloured, and morphs into a different consistency, clogging the drain. She panics and tries to turn the water off, but to no avail, it keeps coming no matter which way she turns the knob. And there's the faint sound of hysterical laughter ringing in her ears, coming seemingly from nowhere, because god knows she certainly doesn't think this is funny. And next blood starts spewing from the faucet in the sink, in the bathtub, and rising from the drainage in the immaculately tiled floor.

She's screaming so loudly she doesn't hear her parents break down the door, and rush into the room, can't see them until they're holding her, shaking her, telling her she's hysterical, that there's nothing there. The laughter is growing louder now, hurting her ears, and she squeezes her eyes closed, wishing, hoping, praying that when she opens them again it will all be gone, all of the blood. And when she opens her eyes again, the stickiness is gone, and the red is gone, the blood is gone, and where did it go?

She can still hear the echoes of that laughter in her ears. Her heart beats fast, and her face is wet with tears she doesn't remember crying.

_Alana Beck is thirteen when she first experiences It. From that day on, the torment of knowing she had to hide her day to day terror from classmates and family alike wears on her patience like sandpaper._

 

September, 2016

Years had passed since the first time she experienced one of those hallucinations. Almost five to be exact. But she had never adjusted to them, and she would never adjust to the way that nobody else could see what she was seeing, what was so clearly there, the horrors that presented themselves to her. But she did learn how to stop screaming.

Now, when her eyes fooled her into seeing her fingernails drop out of their nail beds, into seeing blood drip down the walls, into seeing leeches make their way across her desk, leaving a disgusting rust red trail behind them, she wouldn't even flinch. Wouldn't make a sound. Almost couldn't.

Because after the first few times, with the screaming, and the thrashing, the scratching and the tears, her parents has taken her to a doctor, declaring to him that they thought she was schizophrenic.

So she learned how to shut up, and how to keep all of the screaming and the crying inside of herself. Bottling it up for some rainy day when she wouldn't be called hysterical for the visions she never asked for and would, without a moment's hesitation, get rid of if she could. There was no upside to these hallucinations that she could think of, no benefit to constantly feeling like she was living in a nightmare, of having to constantly take another look and make sure all that she was seeing was real, of blocking out the things that couldn't be real to cope.

There was no good side to her constant anxiety.

She ignored it as best she could. She woke up at 5:30am, she took a twenty minute jog with the family dog, just breathing, just focusing on the pavement in front of her, on the music playing through her earphones. She feeds the dog before preparing breakfast for herself, and taking a short shower. She would often keep a strict schedule, any fault in schedule could give the hallucinations leeway to start something that might make her break this time.

Next, it was time to pick a school appropriate outfit that would also allow her not to overheat, and then wake up her younger brother, knowing if she didn't do it, nobody else would. Then she made breakfast for Jordan, organised her school bag, and sat down to study.

If she could keep her focus now, maybe, just maybe, the visions wouldn't creep into her vision, maybe she would get through one day without having to push a panic attack down into her lungs until such a time as she could be alone. Which was barely ever. Mondays extracurricular activity is Debate Club. Tuesdays is Student Council. Wednesday is Book Club. Thursday is Yearbook. Friday is Academic Decathlon. On top of all that, she juggled a part time job, and spent weekends doing chores and taking care of her younger brother, making sure they both got through their homework.

The only time she had free was when she decided she had done enough for the day and retreated to her bed to sleep. She didn't have time to panic. She didn't have room to panic. She just had to get on with her day. She had to smile like nothing was wrong.

Because as far as everybody else knew, nothing was wrong. She was Alana Beck. Practically Perfect in Every Way. Future Valedictorian. Most likely to succeed in everything she attempted. And she had to act like it. She couldn't just break down just because she sometimes had visions of all the blood in her body draining out onto the floor.

 ➖➖

It's the first day of school when she spots him, and wonders why she's never noticed him before. A boy with sandy hair, who seems to jump at any sudden noise. Whose eyes flit around the room nervously, as though waiting for his surroundings to suddenly and dramatically change. He's a little soft around the face, and his left arm is covered from just above the elbow to his mid forearm in long streaky scars, shiny and white against his sun kissed skin.

Something in her soul recognises pieces of herself in him, the jumpiness, his seeming distrust in reality, the way he sometimes blanches and grabs the nearest surface, staring out at something Alana can't see. Sometimes his hand finds his scar and scratches, as though there were still something there. Still something tearing the the flesh from his arm.

She starts to think, just minutes into observing the boy (whose name is Evan, she's been in school with him for nearly eleven years, she remembers) that maybe he has these visions too. Maybe not the same as hers, but the way he acted, she wouldn't be surprised.

Or maybe he was just jumpy because if that poor girl who died out at the orchard over the summer. Dayna. She had just moved to town a year ago, Alana had seen her once or twice in the library, but she hadn't seemed approachable, and she hadn't shared any classes with her. It's a huge mystery in Cloverport, whether she had been killed, or whether she had killed herself. The police were saying nothing, and no coroner's report had been published as of yet -there were rumours that there would be one coming out later in the week - so the public were left to draw their own conclusions, and the grisly death was the talk of the town nowadays. A local death was enough to make any person in their right mind easily startled under these circumstances.

It's probably just that. This is just a weight Alana had to bear on her own. Her own personal hell. Nobody else experienced it. It's hers alone. Maybe she is crazy.

 ➖➖

It isn’t real. She has to remember that. It isn't real, nobody else sees it, and it isn't going to help her become Valedictorian if she starts screaming hysterically in the middle of class. She breathes slowly, and closes her eyes for a moment to try and block it out. The rivulets of blood trailing down her arm, joining the ink on the paper, drowning out her words and turning the paper bright red.

In the blackness of her closed eyes, the laughing, ever present in these visions, grows louder, more mocking, knowing she can't handle what it is showing her. Knowing she can't handle the visions that come to her unbidden whenever her mind wanders.

Alana feels sick of being unable to let her guard down. She's just so tired. She opens her eyes again and the blood is still there, and this voice in her ear, perfectly calm and reasonable tells her _Nobody else sees it, but it's real. Nobody believes you, no one will believe you if you say anything, they'll lock you up, and only you will know it was real._

And that's enough, she picks her things up off the desk, ignoring the feeling of blood dripping down her clothes as she closes her book, and walks out of class without a second thought., without stopping for a hall pass. She can’t be in there. She can’t just sit there anymore. She collapses in the corridor, lined with lockers, looking around to see no one there, and starts madly wiping the blood off her clothing, off herself, trying to hold back the tears that threaten to spill.

Further up the hall, she hears a crash, and looks up to see a tall boy dressed in black, his hair hanging over his face, furiously kicking at a locker. She stops her frantic movements, suddenly self conscious, suddenly conscious of how crazy she looks.

She stops and collects her books from the floor, careful not to cringe at the way the blood bloated pages soak her hands, dribble onto her cream coloured cardigan.

She looks up again to make sure the boy hasn't noticed her, hasn't noticed how strangely she's acting. He's sitting on the floor now, head tipped toward the ceiling and the clear sky outside. He looks like he's in pain and deep distress. That's when she realises this is Connor Murphy. Dubbed the school psycho by most of the student body, but she’s always felt sorry for him, he seems so sad and alone.

But also so angry. No matter how she pitied him, she wouldn't approach now. Not seeing the dents in the locker door, and not seeing his hands still curled into fists, knuckles turning white as he squeezes. She was going to steer clear of the boy, maybe finding him later today to talk to him about it. Sometime when he was less angry. And her hands were less bloody.

 ➖➖

She's on her way to the computer lab when she comes across a huddled shape in the hallway. It seems everybody is breaking down in the hallway today.

On a normal day - though, what even constitutes normal anymore? - Alana would walk right past. It's not that she's apathetic, she'd even say that she was a pretty caring person, but when it came to public displays of pretty much anything, Alana would rather be anywhere else.

The only thing that stops her today, is that it’s Evan. And he's shaking and muttering, and she would look like a sociopath if she didn't stop to check on him. She first brushes his cheek with her hand, wiping away a stray tear, and he freezes. She places a hand on his shoulder and he flinches and looks at her with scared eyes. Eyes like a wounded animal. She takes her hand back, and holds them out in front of her body as a sign of peace, showing him she meant no harm.

“Evan, are you okay?” She asks, knowing very well that the answer is no.

He shakes his head. “Y-you wouldn't understand. I can't- you'll laugh at me.”

And she knows that feeling. It comes to her every time those hallucinations invades her field of vision. Every time she wakes up in a cold sweat. Nobody else would understand what she's seen. What she's been shown. What she knows.

So she sinks to her knees next to him, and says: “Try me.”

The look in his eyes changes, there's something new in them, a sort of light, and she thinks it's hope.

“I- I don't know, Alana,” he starts, stuttering and looking around the hallway with wary eyes. “I don't think- you won't believe me-”

She laughs darkly, and looks down. “I know more than you think about not being believed.”

“I don't want to talk about this in the hallway.” His voice is barely louder than a whisper, and she has to lean in to hear him. But she can understand. She wouldn't want to talk about her visions somewhere as exposed as the hallway, where anyone could overhear it all. Even if it wasn't anything like what she experiences, she understands that feeling at the very least.

“Come on.” She finds herself saying, rising from her knees and offering him a hand up. “I'm heading to the computer lab. Hardly anyone uses it, so it should be more private.”

He looks at her hand for a moment with hesitation, and she tries to rid her mind of the remembered feeling of it being coated in blood earlier today. He takes it and rises to his feet, shoulder curling inward, head tilted downwards. If he stood straighter, was more confident in himself, she thinks, he would be taller than her.

She moved her hand up his arm to his elbow and leads him the short way to the computer lab, looking around for a moment, making sure that no one is there before taking a seat on one of the benches and looking at him with what she hopes is an earnest and open expression.

He takes a deep breath and his hands find the hem of his polo shirt, a gesture she had seen him repeat a thousand times if she thought about it. “I- I guess it s-started when I was seven. I- I don't quite understand what happened, even now. It was all so fast. There was this storm, I have no idea why I was allowed to play in the street. I mean, how freaking unsafe is that, right?” He looks at her for confirmation, and she nods, as though to say ‘go on’.

“There was this- I lost something, down the stormwater drain. It was special. Special enough that my seven year old self was ready to reach into the drain to get it. But I got down to reach in, and there were these eyes. I- nobody believed me. I mean, who believes a seven year old with severe blood loss, in shock, probably traumatised, when he says he saw a clown in the gutter?” His hand drifts subconsciously to the opposite arm, the scarred arm, fingertips grazing the still raised scars.

“A clown?” She asks, making sure she heard him correctly. He doesn't take it that way.

“I know. I know, it sounds crazy, it's couldn't have been real, but I- it happened so fast, and the voice was so calm, offering my toy back, and I went to grab it, and I just remember claws- you must think I'm crazy- I should go-” He makes leave the room, and Alana slides off the desk, hurrying over to him, grasping at the sleeve of his blue polo shirt.

“Evan, I don't think you're crazy. I know you're not crazy because-” and she gasps, because this is the first time somebody might believe her when she tells them, and that understand the constant cloud of terror she lives under. “Because I see things too.”

And they make eye contact. And their faces are solemn but hopeful.

“What do you see?” He whispers.

And she tries not to let her lips tremble when she says: “Blood.”

His brows furrow, and he stops heading toward the exit. “Alana-”

“It's everywhere, Evan-” and her voice breaks. “And I can't make it go away, and nobody ever believes me.”

His hands are on her arms, like he thinks she'll collapse if he lets her go, and it occurs to her that her knees are slack beneath her, and she's already collapsed, and he is keeping her upright.

“I know.” He says.

“You know?” She repeats desperately, and her hands curl in the front of his polo shirt, holding on as though he might disappear if she let go.

“I believe you.” He replies.

And that's all she needed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alrighty, I hope you enjoyed that. 
> 
> The next chapter will be coming out in about three days, as we're going to try and establish an upload schedule that goes Monday/Wednesday/Friday or Sunday/Tuesday/Thursday if you're in the US. Big apologies to @ls201 for being the only American on the team and having to carry on with a different schedule so it gets uploaded at the right time. 
> 
> Anyways, comments are always appreciated, kudos as well. If you see a typo, or a content warning I haven't mentioned, let me know, and I'll make it happen.
> 
> Thanks for reading, H.


	4. three: by himself it's easy to pretend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jared doesn't even remember what happened after it.
> 
> It's like his memory cuts out like a busted VCR.
> 
> Just remembers not being able to sleep the next night. Remembers that his parents grounded him for breaking the TV because _dammit Jared, don't you understand how expensive that was? What were you thinking?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from 'Solitaire' by The Carpenters (breaking the mould by not using a DEH song, exciting, I know)
> 
> So, hi, guys. It's nosecoffee again. The support for this work, so far, has been awesome, and you would not believe how happy my coauthors and I are about posting this fic.
> 
> So, trigger warnings for this chapter are lighter, because there isn't much gore, but there is still stuff. So;
> 
> Discussion of suicide  
> Discussion of murder  
> Suicidal ideation (kind of, watch out for that)  
> Body shaming
> 
> Please be careful, and let me know if there's something I missed.
> 
> Now, without further ado, I give you, THE AMAZINGLY EMOTIONALLY STAGGERED JARED KLEINMAN

_three._

June, 2009

Jared is ten years old when his parents leave him alone, in the house, for the first time. Sure, it’s not the first time that they've gone out for dinner, or gotten a little too wine-drunk at a dinner party and had to stay the night, but he’s always had a sitter.

Not now, though.

And Jared feels on top of the world. Like a king. Like he can do anything, and not have to think about the repercussions.

The first thing he does, when they leave, after watching them drive down the street, and turn the corner, off into the main road, is get on his second hand bicycle and ride it down to the video store with the pocket money he's been saving up. _Aliens,_ and the old _Nightmare on Elm Street_ movie he heard that Harris kid talking about in the halls.

(Jared ignored the fact that the Harris kid was only talking about it, because the principal of the high school, Mr. Howard, lived on Elm Street. And he was joking that maybe Freddy Krueger would kill Mr. Howard and they wouldn't have to go to high school.)

Jared buys Skittles and popcorn and as many mint patties that he could stuff into his hoodie pocket.

He gets back home just before the sun sets. He's made good time. Jared orders a pizza with some stolen money from his dads desk drawer, and settles in making the popcorn and setting up the DVD’s.

The pizza arrives half an hour later. Jared’s been bored for a good twenty-five of those minutes, and eaten half of the mint patties.

When he's all sat down on the couch, surrounded by goodies and pizza - just for him, he doesn't have to share with _anyone_ \- he presses PLAY on _Aliens._

Jared doesn't even think to go through the motions his sitters usually do. Doesn't think to lock the doors, or turn on some extra lights, or anything.

He's a little over halfway through _Aliens,_ and scared shitless, mind you, when the power goes out.

There's a long humming noise and then a soft clicking noise as the lights turn off - all of them, _every single conceivable light_ \- and the TV switches to black.

Jared sits, frozen, in the dark, for a moment. There's a slice of Hawaiian pizza halfway up to his mouth. He lets it drop to his lap. If he can't see anything, does it really matter what he does?

The hair on Jared’s arms and neck stand on end.

He's always been a little scared of the dark, but on his own like this? It's like there's no safety blanket. Jared’s mom isn't there to have him collect up the candles around the house - not the special ones, though - and light them around the house; Jared’s dad isn't there to nudge his chin up and tell him that the lights will be back on, soon. There's no babysitter to scowl and use her cell phone to call his parents and tell them what's happened.

Jared doesn't even have a torch on him.

He's just sitting in the dark.

He should check if the neighbours lights are out, too.

He should go in search of a candle, or a pack of glow sticks, or a torch.

Jared stays frozen on the couch. Something, a primal fear of the unknown, a fear of _something_ in the darkness, is keeping him in his seat. In his mind, he's safer like this.

Jared closes his eyes, and squeezes his fists in the blanket over his lap, hears a soft noise as the slice of cold pizza in his lap falls onto the floor.

And then, light, against his eyelids.

Perhaps he was wrong. Perhaps it was only a short blackout, perhaps the power is back, already. Perhaps it's a neighbour with a torch, coming to check on him. Perhaps it's the headlights of his parents car, pulling into the driveway to rescue him from the dark.

Jared opens his eyes, satisfied with the fantasy, desperate for the same satisfaction in reality.

He swallows a scream.

Glowing yellow eyes stare at him from across the room, bright and hungry and evil. They float in the darkness, seven feet in the air, not lighting any more of a face, or anything but Jared. Like they're judging him. _Mocking_ him.

There's a soft laughter in his ears, growing louder with every moment. Jared stays frozen, much too frightened to blink or to move.

 _Jared,_ says a voice, a voice that matches the laughter, uncannily, _did you really think you were alone? You're never alone. Not with me around._

The eyes get closer, the laughter gets louder, and the TV tips over, seemingly on its own, and slams into the hardwood floor, smashing and thudding into the wood, loudly.

Jared can't help it, staring into those eyes, those terrifying eyes.

He screams.

_Jared is ten years-old when he first experiences It, and it only really gets worse from there._

 

September, 2016

At this point, Jared would like to say that he's gotten used to it. But is there a true way to ever get used to constant mocking and hurtful words that come out of nowhere, and eyes that aren't connected to anything but darkness and never blink? Jared would bet quite a bit of money on not.

Jared doesn't even remember what happened after it.

It's like his memory cuts out like a busted VCR.

Just remembers not being able to sleep the next night. Remembers that his parents grounded him for breaking the TV because _dammit Jared, don't you understand how expensive that was? What were you thinking?_

How can he tell them that he _wasn't_ thinking? How can he tell them that that's why he doesn't remember what happened after? How can Jared tell them that he doesn't remember anything, not the neighbours calling the police because they could hear him screaming, not how the house was in shambles, or how he can't even remember the next day?

How can he tell them that there's one thing he's certain of, and that it's that _he didn't break the damn TV?_

Jared doesn't sleep for a week, too afraid of the dark. He sits in his bed, huddled in his blankets, holding the rolling pin he'd stolen from the kitchen, with his lights on.

His mom finds him at the end of the week, and she opens the door and he leaps out of bed, brandishing the rolling pin at her.

She takes him to see someone. A doctor.

They think he’s in the early stages of insomnia.

His mom thinks it's because of the horror movie.

It really doesn't matter.

All that matters is that he only sleeps when he's at Evan’s house for the night, or when he actually takes his medication. Usually he's too scared to sleep. Too scared of the dark.

That's what he doesn't tell anyone, too afraid that no one will understand, or believe him.

Because it keeps happening, worse and worse, every time. Sometimes it just turns off the lights in his room, nowhere else. Traps him in his bed, and tells him everything that's wrong with him, mocks him for his weight and his glasses, and, around the time he's thirteen, his braces.

There's a week and a half of repetitive bathroom breaks during class, to cry, because It keeps whispering that no one will come to his bar mitzvah.

He's as bad as Evan.

And, _fuck,_ it gets worse from there.

It's not just It. It's him, too.

A defence mechanism crops up. He starts putting up walls, throwing rocks, shouting a war cry that's much too brave for someone as cowardly as him.

He hurts people. He gets sarcastic and uncaring and cold. He gets snarky.

He rolls his eyes at his mother, and talks back to his father, and, if it could get worse, he hurts Evan.

Jared can't help it. He doesn't want to.

It's like the yellow eyes compel him to destroy everything he loves, as well as himself.

He wants to destroy himself. He hates everything. He hates looking in the mirror.

Jared avoids them. Less chance of breaking one, that way, right?

Jared would take 7 years of bad luck over the hurt look in Evan’s eyes every time he opens his dumb mouth, any day.

\- -

His dad drops into his seat at the dinner table, looking exhausted.

“This Dayna P business is tiring, I'll tell you.” He says. Jared assumes, he's right. His dad is one of the only coroner’s in town, after all, and dealing with Cloverport’s rampant gossip mill and the pressure of what he may find on this girl’s body is beyond stressful.

“Isn't the report coming out, this week?” Jared’s mom asks, handing her husband the bowl of salad.

He nods. “It's crazy. There's so much about this that I don't understand.” Jared’s father spoons out a handful of salad onto his plate. “It's to the point where I don't even know if it's a murder, or a suicide.”

Jared and his mother stop dead, with whatever they're doing. They share a look. Jared’s father isn't supposed to talk about work, but they always promise never to mention anything about it outside the house, so he always ends up talking about it, anyway. “Hm?” Jared’s mother hums, cautiously.

His father nods, absently. “The weird thing - it's baffling, really - is that she shot herself, right? That's what it looked like. The thing is, that if she did shoot herself, she did it with her non-dominant hand.”

Jared cocks his head to the side. He's always loathe to get involved in conversations like these. Granted, they're usually about old people who had a heart attack at the wheel of their car and crashed into a tree or something. Never interesting. Not like Dayna P’s supposed suicide.

“Why is that important?” Jared asks. His parents give him strange looks.

“Well, if she were to take her own life,” Jared’s father begins, slowly, “she’d have done it with her right hand. It is plausible that someone else shot her, and made it look like a suicide, but from the angle at which the bullet entered her head, I'd say she did it herself. We’re testing for powder burns tomorrow, but it'll be inconclusive.”

Jared’s never been interested in coronary science, but it's about the latest town gossip, so how can he resist?

“There's more.” Jared observes, from the look on his father's face.

His dad smiles, ruefully. “You're much too smart for your own good,” he replies, and then frowns a little. “But you're right. There's more. There were five more bullet shells on the ground beside her body. That's why it'll be inconclusive. And there were scratch marks. Like she was attacked. Like a large animal attacked her before her suicide. An entire chunk taken out of her arm, scratches across her legs and chest.”

Jared takes this in, swallows it, and in his mind there's the yellow eyes, and a voice that tells him that Dayna was naïve. That Dayna wasn't strong enough.

That neither was he.

That, eventually, he'd end up just like her. Lost, missing, dead.

The latest housewife gossip, twisted and mangled words, untrue before they're even out of the speaker's mouth.

Jared leaves the table without another word.

\- -

Jared doesn't really think about what he says to Evan that morning, in the car. It's mindless banter, and if Evan goes pale at the mention of their most recent tragedy, well, it's not Jared’s fault, is it? Whatever.

Jared doesn't really think when he calls out to Connor Murphy in the hallway, and doesn't really think when he backs away, too aware that he's crossed some kind of line, struck a bad nerve, gone a bit too far. _Whatever._

His classes are boring, and he doesn't know if there’s somewhere that he'd rather be.

Maybe he just wants to sleep.

Yeah, that sounds about right.

History seems worth sleeping through, but Jared doesn't want to disturb everyone by waking up screaming, like he always does.

The yellow eyes invade his dreams, these days, because that's a place where he can't escape. It's like a parody of _Nightmare on Elm Street_ where he's not hunted down, just laughed at.

His life has become a nightmare, uncontrollable, in which a common image is ending up in the orchard like Dayna. Found by some wandering kid. Ending up on the coroner's table, in front of his father, so disappointed.

 _They'd be so disappointed in you, Jared. They already are._ The voice is constant.

Jared just ignores it, and sits through History, like a normal fucking student, taking nothing in, and rushes out of the classroom with the rest of the crowd when the bell rings.

\- -

Evan comes over for pizza the next night - Jared guilted him into it. His dad is working late and his mom’s having a girls night with her friends. That includes Evan’s mom.

Evan’s better off with Jared, than alone, anyway.

He puts on _Scott Pilgrim vs. the World;_ figures it's a good background movie, while also being a good movie, and waits for Evan to tentatively start a conversation.

Eats his Hawaiian pizza in silence.

“Have you been sleeping at all?” Evan’s soft voice asks. Jared turns, raising an eyebrow.

“What gave it away?” He replies, spreading his arms open like he could care less that it's taken Evan this long to notice.

Evan flinches a little. Jared’s stomach sinks. God, he hates this.

“No, I haven't.” Jared amends. He wants the hurt in Evan’s expression to go away. _The hurt you inflicted,_ says the pleasant voice in his head.

“Shut up.” He mutters.

Evan doesn't seem to hear him. “Has the medication stopped working? You know, you-you should really see your doctor if-”

“The medication’s working fine, Ev.” Jared assures him. “I just haven't been taking it.” Evan gives him an aghast look.

“Why not?” He cries. “Jared, your mental health will d-d-deteriorate if you're not getting enough sleep!”

“What mental health?” Jared snorts, and Evan’s face contorts with righteous anger. He's very good at the righteous thing.

“Jared, what's been hap-happening?” Jared shuffles, awkwardly, taking another slice of pizza.

 _Fat,_ says the voice, and Jared’s brow furrows.

“You can tell me.” Evan continues. “You can tr-trust me.”

Jared licks his lips, sets the pizza down. “You really wanna know?”

Evan nods, assuredly, completely facing Jared, giving him his full attention. Why is it, that after all the times Jared’s hurt this boy, that he's still around, and still cares this much?

Surely Jared doesn't deserve this.

 _You don't,_ snarks the voice.

 _Fuck off,_ he thinks.

“I…” Jared takes a deep breath, looks Evan dead in the eye. “It sounds crazy, but I keep having this recurring nightmare. These floating yellow eyes, and then a voice, telling me what's wrong with me, and that I'm stupid and fat and no one loves me.”

“Oh, Jared,” there's pity in Evan’s eyes, and Jared doesn't want it. His pride demands that he draw back.

“I'm not done.” Jared says, instead of listening to his instincts. Evan nods, in understanding. “It's not just a nightmare. Sometimes, it happens while I'm awake. Everything goes dark and I see the eyes and I hear this laughter, like it's mocking me, like-”

“Like it knows you’re weak, and it knows how to get to you?” Evan interrupts, stutter suddenly absent.

Jared’s eyes widen. “Yeah.” He says, mouth dry. “Yeah, exactly.”

“You hear it too?” Evan whispers. “The laughing?”

“Yeah.” Jared repeats. Evan nods, an expression on his face that says that he's trying to process it all.

“So, there's three of us.” Evan says.

“What?” Jared furrows his eyebrows in confusion.

“Alana hears it too.” His voice is pointed now, determined, like a plan is coming together in his head.

“The laughing?” None of it makes sense, in his mind, anyway. All the information is too jumbled up in the darkness and the fatigue and the hatred, burning hot and white, but not bright.

“Yeah. And she has visions about blood. Like, where she's covered in it, and stuff.” Evan licks his lips, seems to retreat, a little, again. “And you know the stuff from when I was seven?”

“Of course. How could I forget?” When Evan finally got around to telling him, it had seemed ridiculous to fifteen year-old Jared that the scar running down his arm he got from- “The clown in the gutter.”

Heidi had told him that it may have just been the trauma, the shock, forming Evan’s memories into something a little more rational. After all, he’d just been a kid. But there was something in her eyes, some fear, some doubt, like she even knew she was lying, and was trying to convince herself of it, too.

“We all hear the laughing.” Evan says.

“What does that mean?” And it still doesn't make much sense. But Jared’s trying to see what little sense there is. Evan just makes it all sound so damn sensible.

Which is why the next words out of Evan’s mouth are so fucking disappointing. “I don't know.”

They lapse into silence, once more, and it’s heavier than ever before.

Jared’s scared of what that means.

\- -

He drives Evan home an hour later.

Jared figures that if he can survive tonight, he'll be alright. Because, now, he knows that he's not going crazy.

Or, maybe they’re all, collectively, going crazy. If that's what it is, at least he knows he's not alone.

Jared takes a turn, and looks out his side window. At Cloverport passing him by. Such a cheerful name for such a _miserable fucking town._ He's passing the park when he sees it. Has to do a double take.

If his eyes aren't betraying him, right now, there's someone lying facedown in the grass at the tree line of the park.

And Jared breathes in deeply, slams on the brakes, and unclips his seatbelt.

He pushes away his fear as he sprints as a fast as he can through the dark. He just hopes they're not dead, or something.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks you, for reading! If you liked this chapter, drop a comment about what you liked, and if you haven't already, please leave a kudos.
> 
> If there's typos, let me know, or something I haven't tagged, or out in the trigger warnings at the start, because I don't want anyone feeling uncomfortable. I'll fix them as soon as I can.
> 
> Hmu on Tumblr @nosecoffee, and you can find HamiltonTrash there, too, @cake-snake.
> 
> Again, thanks, no see you on the next chapter (CONNOR TIME!)


	5. four: dark comes crashing through

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “No, I know. It was funny. I'm laughing.” He takes a pause, and steps toward Kleinman, feeling evil in the way that he relishes the step back Kleinman takes. “Am I not laughing hard enough for you?”
> 
> Jared lets out a nervous laugh. “You're such a freak.”
> 
> And he walks away, like he didn't just treat another human being like garbage, as though he didn't just confront Connor, as though he thought nothing of Connor. Tears prick at his eyes, and he angrily drags his sleeve across his face to catch them before they fall, and he strides away, wanting to get away from that scene. Wanting to be able to walk away from that feeling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, it's your friendly neighbourhood HamiltonTrash with an update, because I love Connor too much to leave this to tomorrow. Here are some content warnings: References to Self Harm, drug use/abuse, suicidal thoughts, panic attack. 
> 
> You guys will be glad to hear that this fic is more than halfway written at this point, we went on a writing spree last night. So we have only five more chapters to write. 
> 
> Without further ado, here's Connor.

_four._

2003

He barely even remembers the first time it happened. He is four years old, two years his sister's senior, and proud of it, of course. He can ride a bike with minimal use of training wheels, and dad says he has a good arm, that they can get him started in little league as soon as he starts school. He can tell funny jokes, and he gets to go trick or treating on Halloween, dressed as Spider-Man, his favourite superhero. Little Zoe is only two, and he promises he will tell her all the secrets to the tricks he knows, tell her all the jokes he knows, and he'll protect her from all of the villains of the world, because that's what dad says big brothers do. So he will.

The family is on a picnic on a mild day in May, Zoe dressed in a little purple dress, small curls bouncing along with her steps, little legs stumbling as she chases after him, a huge smile on her face, arms outstretched to him, trying to catch up, and he grins as he turns back, running towards a tall, scraggly tree. She can't tag him if she can't reach him.

And his foot catches on a root that he hadn't seen and he trips, falls, hits his head on the surprisingly hard ground. And everything goes black. But nothing stops. He can still hear Zoe's toddling footfalls behind him, and his mother calling out to him, checking if he's okay, and his father's heavier footfalls coming up behind Zoe, his hands pulling him into an upright position, and he doesn't know how to tell his parents that there is something in his eyes that he can't see past, that something is wrong, something is not right, that he can't see them.

And that there is laughter in his ears. Where is the laughter coming from, who’s laughing at him? He blinks away tears that should be clouding his vision and his father's hands wipe them away.

“Come on, son. It was just a little fall. You got a shock, that's all.”

And he wants to yell and scream that he can't see, that his dad needs to fix it, because he can't see, but he doesn't want his dad to be disappointed in him, or angry with him, so he nods and fixes his wobbling chin, and blinks the tears away. And holds his dad’s hand as they walk back to the blanket.

 _Connor Murphy is four years old the first time he experiences It, and learns he would give a limb to have his sight all of the time._  

_September, 2016_

Life can be so goddamned unfair, and Connor knows this best of everyone. You can't believe life is fair to all when you are a medical mystery, going randomly blind, sometimes for hours at a time, and his sight coming back as clear as it had been before.

After he finally told his mother what was happening - why sometimes he would stop in his tracks and freeze, and grasp at things around him - all of a sudden he was being whisked about to specialists, each time getting a new diagnosis, some doctor declaring a new thing wrong with him, and he didn't want a diagnosis, he didn't want to be told what was wrong with him, he wanted it fixed.

But deep down, he knew nothing was wrong with _him_. The laughter in his ears told him as much. He was a victim of forces far beyond his control, and there is nothing worse than being a victim. Because this way, he's powerless to stop the darkness in his mind clouding over his eyes.

There was a time in his childhood, he couldn't pinpoint when exactly, when his father stopped caring about him, because it was easier that way. Easier not to care, than to deal with his son going blind at random intervals. His mother pulled back, stayed sweet and caring, but dared not get too close, she just didn't, still doesn't, know how to deal with him, help him, fix him. Only his sister remained for a time, leading him around school when she saw him stumbling, or standing stock still in the hallways.

But being a victim for such a long time, so isolated, with little support from his parents, he lashed out at her, telling her not to treat him like he was fucking fragile, that he was just as able as her, goddamn it. And he didn't mean to. God knows he always meant to protect his baby sister. But he never imagined he would have to protect her against himself.

He doesn't remember exactly what he did. He remembers thrashing limbs, flashes of colour, and that all consuming fury, but not what he did. He does remember the betrayed, hurt look on her face after the fact, and the way she had scrambled backwards, away from him as he realised what he had done, and had tried to apologise and comfort her.

Losing his little sister’s trust is when he thinks he lost the light that used to light his way through hard days.

He takes solace now in artificial means of happiness. Weed is definitely his favourite crutch, he thinks as he takes a drag, relishing in the warm smoke filling his lungs, and exhaling, watching the smoke billow in the air. But if he can't afford it, if he doesn't have it on hand, just anything out of the medicine cabinet will work. Anything to distract from that empty feeling that sits inside of him, infecting every other part of his body.

He sits in his bedroom with the door closed a towel rolled and shoved under his door to box in the smell and his window open to try and ventilate the room. As much as he liked the pleasant buzz that was filling his body, he didn't just want to sit in the smoke. It was too close to-

“Connor, we’re going to be late if you don't get out here! I will leave you behind, and then you'll have to walk, and you hate that. I know you get scared you'll get lost.”

“Fuck off, Zoe.” He shouts at his door, and he can hear her sigh, and walk away, not even trying to fight him on it.

He stubs out his joint leaving it in an ashtray and leaves the window open to keep airing the room. There was a time when he would now proceed to change his clothes and spray himself down with cologne, but that time was long gone. He doesn't care if people can smell it on him. He doesn't care if his mother is disappointed in him. He doesn't care if his dad rolls his eyes and tried to ignore his existence. He tries not to care about how scared Zoe looks around him all the time.

Instead of trying to rid himself of the smell, he picks up his old leather satchel bag, not caring if he had everything for class in it, pulls the towel out from under the door, and takes the stairs two at a time, barely stopping to look at his parents.

He doesn't need to, to know that they're disappointed.

 ➖➖

“Hey Connor, I'm loving the new hair length - very, uh, school shooter chic!” Fucking Jared Kleinman can never keep his mouth shut long enough to think about the words he’s saying.

The hair comment shouldn't cut as deeply as it does, shouldn't hurt him as much as it does. But his hair is the one thing in his life he can control, and the one thing that he can use to help himself stay calm when his vision goes dark. He can feel his fingers on his scalp, the pull of it as he tugs it, reminding himself that while he can't see anything, everything still exists, the stimulus calming him. It was better, safer, than carrying loose razors around with him to ground himself, should the need present itself. The jagged scars across his arms ache at the thought.

And the hair hides the look on his face when it happens, which he's sure would break his reputation in seconds flat if people could see his face fall, and tears fill unblinking eyes. Now, his hair falls over his face, hides it and his fear from view, leaving him as stoner Connor, a boy nobody wants to mess with.

Except, apparently Jared Kleinman, who is only a few places higher on the high school pecking order than him. He can't help the way his head snaps up, and he looks at Jared with fury in his eyes. His hair is the thing that keeps him safe and secure, how dare he choose that of all things to pick at? Why not the strong smell of weed that surrounds his person? Why not the fact that his skinny jeans are just slightly too short for him, or the bleach stain on his jacket, or the fact that he is legally not allowed to drive because of his ‘epilepsy’ - the diagnosis his parents had settled on, despite Connor now knowing that what he experienced were not seizures, nowhere near- where did Jared Kleinman get off on picking at the one thing that Connor still had control over?

At his glare, Jared backs up a few spaces and hold his hands in front of his body. “It was a joke. I was joking.”

Connor shakes his hair out minutely to hide the tears in his eyes - goddamn the genetics that dictated that he would be an angry crier- and says. “No, I know. It was funny. I'm laughing.” He takes a pause, and steps toward Kleinman, feeling evil in the way that he relishes the step back Kleinman takes. “Am I not laughing hard enough for you?”

Jared lets out a nervous laugh. “You're such a freak.”

And he walks away, like he didn't just treat another human being like garbage, as though he didn't just confront Connor, as though he thought nothing of Connor. Tears prick at his eyes, and he angrily drags his sleeve across his face to catch them before they fall, and he strides away, wanting to get away from that scene. Wanting to be able to walk away from that feeling.

 ➖➖

It picks the worst times to blind him. Or maybe it's trying to break him. Either way, this is the most inopportune time it has chosen to blind him.

“Connor Murphy, I asked you to read aloud for Demetrius, please.”

Connor clears his throat, trying to make his voice not as small as he feels, his hands tightening on the side of the desk, reaffirming that he is here, and prepares to speak. “I can't.” He says, and he hears sniggers in front of him, interrupting the laughter he can't place, that keeps moving, that he's decided must be in his head.

“Connor, I know for a fact you can read, and I would appreciate it if you would join the class in our reading.” The teacher's voice is terse and annoyed. He figures teaching 25 plus angsty teenagers for eight hours a day, five days a week will do that to you, but he can't help but feel annoyance at her impatience with him.

“With all due respect, ma’am, I cannot see my book, and therefore cannot read.”

“Then move your hair Connor. You ought to tie it up in class. It's disrespectful to have it hanging in front of your face like that when you're talking to someone. Now would you please pick up from where we left off?”

He huffs, and reluctantly moves his hair from in front of his eyes, revealing what he's sure seem like his eyes flitting from place to place, trying to find purchase on any object in the room, and only finding blackness where everything should be. The laughter in his ears gets louder, more mocking.

“Ma’am,” he says, and he can hear his voice slipping back into the desperate place he was stuck in inside, becoming small and weak, and he wouldn't usually be so polite, but these episodes make the southern manners his mother taught him emerge like nothing else will. “I physically cannot see right now. Reading will be very hard like this.”

The laughter and tittering in the class grows louder, and the maniacal laughter in his head is so loud it hurts.

The teacher sighs, obviously annoyed, and he can barely make out her shoe clicking on the floor. “I don't have time for this Connor. Engage or don't, it's your grade. We will skip over you, but think twice next time, before trying this again.”

Connor huffs a sigh of relief and let's his head fall to the desk, and the laughter’s gone now, and he's left with a whisper. _Nobody will believe you, Connor. You're not trying hard enough, you're not doing enough, and you will never be enough for anybody. Sitting in the dark is all the use you will ever be to anybody, because at least like this, you're not in anybody's way. You're never going to find your way out of the dark, Connor, you will stay weighted there like a lead balloon. But Connor, down here, down here you'll float. Down here we have helium balloons. We all float down here._

And the deafening laughter was back. He closes his blind eyes, and buries his hands in his hair, waiting it out.

When all of a sudden the dark, and the laughter, recedes, he grabs his book for the desk, and gets up, bag slung over his shoulder, and walks quickly out of the room, not caring about getting a hall pass. The anger radiating off him feels like it would destroy anything he touches right now. So the moment he's out the door, he madly kicks the nearest locked until there's a dent on the door, and middle is bent for far inwards that the edges of it are bent the opposite direction. It looks like him, so beaten and bruised on the inside, he can't be anything but sharp edges on the outside.

Vaguely, he notes a girl on her knees further up the hallway, but pays no mind to her. He puts his back against the lockers next to the one he's destroyed, and slides down until he's on the ground, his knees close to his chest and his head tilted toward the ceiling, trying to keep the tears in his eyes.

Life wasn't fair, and Connor knew that best of all, he thinks.

 ➖➖

The worst was when there was no one around.

Usually, he didn't get more than one attack a day, but today is special, apparently, because he's sitting at home, doing nothing in particular when his sight goes away. It's Thursday, and his first attack happened on a bench outside during lunch. He made a habit of walking just out of school bounds to smoke. Not pot, just cigarettes, which, on another note, he had grown to regret starting. Fifteen year old Connor had thought it looked cool, and he's struggling to kick the cravings now. He was sitting outside, with a cigarette to his lips when his sight flickered out. It had barely been gone ten minutes when he got it back, and it was one of his milder attacks, the laughter softer than usual, the attack shorter than usual. Connor supposes this is payback, or making up for lost time. And it throws him into a panic. Because usually this doesn't happen. And no one is home, he's alone with that voice in his head, calm, reasonable, chilling.

He needs somebody there to help him through the blackness, hold his hand and tell him it would go away, and he's hyper aware now that he has nobody.

His hands find his phone, and he uses speed dial to his advantage, missing a few times, but finally calling Zoe. Even just hearing her voice would help right now. Would distract him from the deafeningly loud laughter ringing in his ears.

The phone rings out to voicemail leaving Connor tense and upset.

“ _Hey, it's Zoe's phone, I'm unavailable right now, but leave a message and I'll get back to you!_ ” Her cheery voice chipped, and there was a tone, and Connor was speaking.

“Zoe, it's not supposed to do this. It's the second time today, and Zoe, I can't see, I can't see anything, and it's all dark, and Zoe I'm so frightened, and so sorry I hurt you and pushed you away, it wasn't fair, and it wasn't right, and I'm fucking terrified right now, and you're not here and it's my fault. The laughing is so fucking loud, Zo, I can't hear myself think over it. I wish I were dead. I wish I were just _dead_ instead of this. Oh my-”

A tone. He was cut off, and rightly so, the message he had just left was panicked gibberish. He shouldn't be here, he wasn't unselfish, he was a burden, and he didn't want his dad to come home and find him crying on the couch because of a problem he'd been dealing with for thirteen years. He should be emotionally stronger than that by now. Men don't cry, men aren't this scared all of the time. He isn't strong enough, and his dad would tell him that, and he had to get the fuck out.

He stumbles to his feet and feels his way out of the room, into the front room, to the door, out the door, and he runs. He hopes he gets hit by a car, and dies, it would end this suffering. Then again, he doesn't want to inflict that trauma on any driver. He sticks to the pavement, not even sure where he was going, he was just running, seeing if he could get rid of that God forsaken laughter, getting out of the house where he should have learned not to be scared of this already.

As if Larry has any inkling of what it is to go blind at random intervals. As if he could ever imagine the pure panic that invades his very soul.

Connor runs until his lungs burn, and his legs ache, and he can feel grass under his feet and and he just fucking collapses.

 ➖➖

He wakes to a hand on his arm, shaking him.

“Connor. You okay, man? Oh fuck, if you fucking overdosed and left me to find your body, I will be more pissed than I know how to handle.” He can't put a finger on who belonged to that voice, but he knew one thing for certain. The blindness had remained.

He had no idea how long he had been wherever he was, and had no idea who was here with him, but the laughter was softer now, with someone here, and he reached up and grabbed their wrist tightly, not sure if they would drift away if he let go.

They jumped and cursed. “Fuck, man, give a guy some warning. I full thought you were dead. Seriously, are you okay?”

“Please stay.” He choked out. “Please- I- who are you? I can't- I can't see anything.”

“What the hell do you mean you can't see? Please tell me you didn't overdose-” and now Connor remembers the name that goes with that voice. It's Jared Kleinman. Asshole extraordinaire. He doesn't know which is stronger, his instinct to scramble away and spit vitriol at the boy, or his survival instinct. His survival instinct wins out, because he doesn't want to fucking move.

“I haven't overdosed,” he says. “I'm, well I'm blind right now, and I'm really fucking scared. Please stay with me.”

Jared's voice gets soft, less joking. “If you could see me, you wouldn't want me here.”

“I know who you are. I recognised your voice.”

“Then how come-”

“How come I haven't fucking taken you down a notch yet? Because if I do, you might leave. And then I'd be alone in the dark. And that's worse.”

Jared sits in silence for a moment and then says: “I’m sorry. For what I said this morning, and for being an asshole to you.”

“Are you just apologising because you pity me?”

“No, I'm apologising because I regretted what I said the moment I said it. It was fucking insensitive and rude, and I attacked you out of nowhere just to reestablish my place on the pecking order. What kind of a fucking asshole does that?”

Connor couldn't help but force out a cold laugh. “You.”

Jared's laugh is more genuine, but dripping with self deprecation. “Yeah. Yeah, I guess me. I'm a fucking asshole, I've just left you lying on the ground. Did you want a lift home?”

Part of Connor wants nothing more than to be taken home, but another part wants nothing more to do with Jared Kleinman. The first part wins. He's cold, and damp, and has been lying face down in grass for who knows how long.

“Yes, thank you.” He says. And he hears Jared shift, move, presumably standing up. And then his hand is on Connor's, and his other hand is guiding Connor's shoulder, making sure he stays steady, doesn't fall again. Then he's leading Connor to his car, and thank god it's somewhat warmer there, because only now does Connor realise he's fucking freezing.

“Where do you live?”

“154 Brandenburg Street.” He replies, and feels out his seatbelt, taking five tries to get it on properly.

The motor starts running properly beneath him, and the voice in his head whispers ever so quietly. _Jared hates you. Why would he ever help you? He's probably taking you somewhere to humiliate you, or hurt you, and he'll brag to all of his friends about it later, and you'll be a laughing stock, Connor_. And Connor is too tired to deny all of that, or do anything about it.

Because Jared probably is taking advantage of his blind state, probably is taking him somewhere with the express purpose of humiliating him. And Connor is too tired to stop him. Life isn't fair. Why would it start being fair now?

 _He's going to hurt you._ The voice continues, knowing it hasn't inspired the most fear it can yet. _He's going to hurt you, and the rest of you family is going to blame you, is going to be so disappointed in you._

“Shut up.” He murmurs, and instantly regrets it, because in the silence of the car, Jared surely heard that.

“What was that, Connor?”

“Sorry, I-” and things can't get worse than they are, he thinks, so fuck it, throw caution to the wind. He tells Jared. “This bullshit has been going on since I was a kid. I just, I just go blind, you know, no warning, no rhyme or reason to it. And there's this voice. It fucking laughs at me, and talks shit about me, to me, and it's not mine, the voice, I know it's not, I get enough of it as it is from my normal internal monologue but-”

“It's so loud and so calm. And so frightening. It knows how scared of it, you are.”

They both freeze for a moment, and Connor's sight flickers back, and he can see they're stopped at a stop sign near to his house, and Jared is looking at him with wide eyes.

“Exactly.” He whispers back.

“Fuck.” Jared says, refocusing on the road, pulling out to the right, towards his house, and the voice is wrong, Jared isn't taking him somewhere hurt him, he's doing what he said he would, and maybe he isn't as much of an asshole as Connor thought.

“That makes four of us.” Jared says, and Connor is left to wonder what that means.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! So that was Connor, and up next is ls201 with our Zoe chapter. Get excited. It's beautifully written. 
> 
> Please leave a comment, let us know how you feel about this story, about Dear Evan Hansen, about anything and everything, we love hearing from you guys. Please leave a kudos. We put a lot of work into this story, and we love seeing that you appreciate it! 
> 
> Look forward to seeing you in the next update! 
> 
> H.


	6. five: i feel the weight of the world sink in

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Technically, jazz band is supposed to have two guitarists, so all the pressure isn’t put on a singular player and the workload can be distributed a little more evenly. But they haven’t had two guitarists in months, not since Dayna P. dropped out after missing something like ten rehearsals Zoe’s sophomore year, and so now, at the beginning of her junior year, the nine months that she’s heard are more stressful than any other part of high school, she’s the only one.
> 
> And now Dayna P.’s dead. A bullet to the side of the head, the initial coroner’s report had claimed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi! it's ls201 again, this time with a zoe chapter. i really hope y'all love this chapter as much as i did, it was definitely my favorite to write so far and i adore zoe. 
> 
> also, just to clarify: in this universe, zoe and connor's relationship isn't like it is in the musical. connor's perhaps distanced himself a bit in recent years, but they definitely don't argue as much as in DEH and connor doesn't get violently angry with zoe. 
> 
> trigger warnings for this chapter: body horror, gore, mention of suicide
> 
> lyrics taken from "a part of me", a cut song from dear evan hansen
> 
> please let me know if i need to add anything, and without further ado, enjoy!

_five._

She's  a half-step too sharp, and Zoe sighs in frustration as the note rings out in the air, nothing but unpleasant and disappointing to her trained musician’s ears. This is _definitely_ not recital material, she thinks, shifting the guitar’s position in her lap.

 

Technically, jazz band is supposed to have two guitarists, so all the pressure isn’t put on a singular player and the workload can be distributed a little more evenly. But they haven’t had two guitarists in months, not since Dayna P. dropped out after missing something like ten rehearsals Zoe’s sophomore year, and so now, at the beginning of her junior year, the nine months that she’s heard are more stressfulthan any other part of high school, she’s the only one.

 

And now Dayna P.’s dead. A bullet to the side of the head, the initial coroner’s report had claimed.

 

Zoe remembers when the news of the girl’s suicide had first hit the papers last week, as the rest of the town was all trying to relish the final remnants of summer, half of Cloverport gone to the beach or Louisville. She’d made her way down the stairs that morning to find her parents seated at the kitchen table, newspaper spread out in front of them, specks of strawberry jam marring the crisp pages. Connor was nowhere to be seen, as per usual, and Zoe had figured he was locked up in his room. Their mother was still preparing him a plate anyway, and she’d peered over her husband’s shoulder as she grabbed a piece of toast, frowning at the headlines. “That poor boy who found her,” she murmured. “God knows that’s something you don’t forget.” 

 

Zoe doesn’t think there’s a God. How can there be, when things like this happen? How can there be, when pretty young girls blow their brains out in apple orchards and good older brothers find their entire lives ruined by a disease that can’t be cured? How, when Dayna is dead, can’t share her music with the world anymore, one of the greatest tragedies of all for a musician, and Connor — 

 

Zoe shakes her head, resolves not to think about Connor for now, not when she’s still got an entire song to rehearse. Her fingers drift to the strings of her guitar again, getting into position to strum a basic G major chord.

 

She’s just flipped the page of her sheet music when she hears the _pop_ , the sound that all guitarists learn to dread.

 

Zoe glances down to find her worst fear confirmed — her guitar stringis broken. She bends down to inspect the string’s frayed ends, then — _pop, pop, pop_! The guitar clatters to the floor, Zoe flinching and jumping out of her seat as she watches every single remaining string snap.

 

She lets out a shaky breath, heart racing as the musician in her screams that she needs to further inspect the damage done to her strings, but Zoe doesn’t dare to touch her guitar. Her eyes dart around the music room, this place that’s always been her safe haven in a world so unsafe for a girl like her, as she tries to come up with a potential cause for the simultaneous snapping. Maybe she’d tuned her strings too tightly? That could explain the sharp note from earlier, but, no, she’d have noticed by now, it would’ve sounded all wrong. Could her strings just have gotten worn out, too old and in need of replacement? No, that can’t be, either, she’d changed them all around a month ago — 

 

Irritation clouds her thoughts, and Zoe reaches for her guitar, convinced she’ll find her answer in the unraveled ends. 

 

The string slices into the soft pad of her finger, and Zoe curses loudly, jerking her hand away from the guitar to get a closer look at her wound. Just her luck, she thinks, glaring at the tiny cut slashed across the tip of her pointer finger. She should’ve known that the heavy-gauge strings would spell out trouble, but her band director had insisted on them.

 

But then her finger starts to burn, worse than the slight sting of the cut, and Zoe can only stare on in some strange combination of awe and horror as the skin around the cut starts to peel back, exposing bloody tissue, tiny tendons and all the things that make her fingers so nimble, so quick and precise on the guitar. It’s almost fascinating.

 

Then she sees the white of bone, and the scene unfolding before her quickly loses its fascinating quality. Instead, she ends up screaming, praying to a god she doesn’t even believe in as every trembling finger starts to tear open, forced to watch as even bone chips away, starts to wear down to nothing. 

 

Nothing. She’ll be left with nothing, and oh God, what does that make her then — 

 

_Bang!_ The door to the music room slams open, and Zoe finds herself sobbing, lifting two perfectly-intact hands to her mouth to mute her cries when she notices a familiar figure looking on from the doorway. Alana Beck, director of fundraising for the jazz band, senior class president, and someone that Zoe’s always secretly admired. Maybe a little more than just admired.

 

As much as it terrifies her, she picks her guitar back up, slings the strap across her body and tries to pretend she was just playing standing up, as one does. “Hey, Alana, how are you — ” she starts, sniffling slightly, but Alana just shakes her head. Her eyes are strangely sad, and Zoe’s stomach drops. The older girl must’ve heard everything. _Fuck._ _She knows._

 

No point in faking normalcy, then. Zoe tugs the strap over her head, lets her guitar fall to the floor. “How did you do that?” she asks, stepping closer to the tired girl leaning against the doorframe. “You completely snapped me out of it. That’s never happened before.” 

 

Zoe’s no stranger to these hallucinations. She’s battled them since thirteen, although they’re typically auditory, and none of the visual ones quite as gory as the attack she’s experienced just now. Her fingers are a popular target, since they’re at the center of her identity — the guitar is really all she has, and to lose her ability to play would be a soul-crushing blow for Zoe, as the thing behind all this obviously knows. Laughter’s another common theme, soft giggles and chuckles and snickers, all directed at her. Nightmares are familiar to her now — she remembers the very first one It had sent her way, a performance at a jazz band concert gone epically wrong, a botched solo and disgusted jeers from the crowd. She hears commentaries on her many shortcomings often, too, faint mumbling from her parents about what a failure she is, how much she disappoints them, why she’ll never be the perfect child they deserve. 

 

But the worst hallucinations by far are the ones of Connor. She never sees him — It keeps anything related to her brother strictly non-visual — but she hears him, _feels_ him, too, the vibrations of him banging on her bedroom door, the fury of his yells as he swears he’ll kill her, tells her what a bitch she is, how much he absolutely fucking _hates_ her.

 

Zoe hates the hallucinations of Connor, but at least she can always tell they’re not real. They’re torture to sit there and suffer through, but she knows they aren’t reality, because if there’s one thing she’s certain of in her life, it’s that Connor will never hurt her. He’s always protected her. He’s her _big brother_ , for Christ’s sake, he just _wouldn’t_.

 

Even if it all sounds so real, and sends shards through her heart anyway.

 

“I get them, too,” Alana says quietly, confession making Zoe freeze in her tracks. They’re just inches apart now, but she can’t move, can’t even breathe or think as she attempts to process what the other girl has just said.

 

“Wait — _really_?” Alana nods, and Zoe blurts out, “Um, how? What do you see?” She regrets the words immediately, Alana cringing at her incredulous tone.

 

“Blood,” the older girl whispers, eyes trained on the floor. “Everywhere, spilling down my legs and onto my feet and not stopping, and no one believes me, because why would they?” She seems lost in memories for a moment, and Zoe flinches, moving forward to help bring her out of it, but then Alana finds reality again, the haze in her expression disappearing, and straightens. “Anyway,” she says, clearing her throat. “You should know that we’re not alone. There’s more like us.”

 

“More?” Zoe repeats stupidly.

 

“More,” Alana confirms. “At least one other, and — I don’t think he’s the only one.” She reaches into her pocket, digs around for a second before pulling out a piece of paper and handing it to Zoe. “Here. My address. We’re going to try to find any others and have a meeting tomorrow. Please come.”

 

“Okay,” Zoe breathes, taking the paper from her. She swallows hard, then asks, “Do you think we’ll be able to get rid of — whatever this is?” 

 

“I don’t know,” Alana admits. “But — ” She pauses, voice taking on a steely resolve, and looks into Zoe’s eyes, fierce determination shining in her gaze. “We’re going to figure out what It is. I can promise you that.” 

 

And if there’s one thing Zoe knows about Alana Beck, it’s that she keeps her promises. 

 

——

All the hope Alana gave her disappears when Zoe discovers there’s a voicemail from her brother waiting for her. She’s situated in her car, mangled guitar strapped into the backseat, key in the ignition, and turns on her phone (she always keeps it off when she practices) only to find a missed call from Connor, and then, a little red number one that informs her of the voicemail.

 

Her heart cracks in two as she listens to it. He sounds so _scared_ , damn it, voice wobbly and cracking as he cries out, “Zoe, it’s not supposed to do this. It’s the second time today, and Zoe, I can’t see, I can’t see anything—”

 

She doesn’t bother to listen to the rest, just tosses her phone into her cupholder and throws the car into drive. _Hold on, Connor. I’m coming._

 

——

She makes it home in record time, tires squealing as she pulls the car into the driveway and jumps out, not even taking a second to lock it (they live in _Cloverport_ , it’s not like anything will happen to her car anyway). The front door’s wide open, and that just makes her walk faster, breaking into a sprint as she peers into the foyer and realizes there’s stuff scattered _everywhere_. 

 

Her mother’s prized antique chairs are toppled over, coffee table knocked askew, lamp on the ground. Zoe follows the path of destruction into the living room, and her gasp echoes throughout the house when she spots Connor’s phone, abandoned by the sofa.

 

Her brother’s gone, he’s left his phone, and now she has no fucking clue where he is.

 

She sinks to her knees, carpet burning her skin, running a hand through her hair as she pleads with her mind to clear and think of somewhere, _anywhere_ that Connor could be. God, who should she even fucking call? 911? Their parents? The friends he doesn’t have? Who do you call when your isolated and possibly-depressed epileptic brother knocks over half your furniture and goes AWOL after leaving you a panicky voicemail?

 

She pulls out her phone, fingers hesitating over the keypad before she decides to listen to his voicemail again, this time in full.

 

It’s a hallucination, Zoe’s certain by the end. It has to be. Real life can’t be this horrifying, can it? Her brother wouldn’t really up and run, would he? What if he’s gone off to die, has a suicide plan or some shit, maybe even has a gun to his head right now? 

 

_No_ , she tells herself. This is just It trying to get to her, trying to make her break down and lose her shit for good before she meets with Alana and the others tomorrow. This isn’t real. Connor will appear any second now. He’s fine, just fine, he’s probably taking a nap or listening to music or whatever the fuck he does when he’s home alone — 

 

Zoe leaps to her feet at the sound of a car in the driveway. She’s jogging out the front door, _running_ as she spots a dented brown sedan. And then, suddenly, she’s doubling over, panting with exhaustion and probably something like a panic attack, and all she can do is watch as a senior she’s seen in the halls a couple times, a guy with glasses and a penchant for nerdy graphic T-shirts, steps around to the passenger side and opens the door.

 

Her brother gets out, face pale and drawn with the kind of exhaustion she knows only comes from one of his episodes, and her heart shatters completely.

 

Because now the hallucinations aren’t what scares her.

 

It’s that she can’t tell the difference between them and reality anymore.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you can follow HamiltonTrash and nosecoffee on Tumblr at @cake-snake , and @nose-coffee
> 
> thanks for the love and support! and get ready for the next chapter -- it's a good one :)
> 
> xo,  
> L


	7. interlude: souls in the fool's night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She clutches the cold metal in her hand like it's a security blanket as she walks into the orchard, and as soon as she gets to a clearing she realises the sheer size of the place. It's giant, bigger than the rest of the town, probably. And all of the trees are uncared for, all these ripe apples still on their branches, the trees having not been seen by an arborist in entirely too long, she decides.
> 
> She just wants it to be done, over, finished, in anyway possible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiya! It's HamiltonTrash back at it again with a chapter probably nobody wanted, but is necessary to the plot line, if that's something you care about. Anyways, onto content warnings: body horror, descriptions of violence (graphic and vague), depression, anxiety attacks, suicide. 
> 
> That's a lot. Alrighty, y'all we have already seen that I am untrustworthy with a schedule, I'm uploading early again. Let's see if we abandon the schedule all together because of my impatience. 
> 
> Chapter title from 'Whispering' Spring Awakening, because I'm Broadway trash.

August 28, 2016

Dayna had never thought about how she'd die. She's a generally happy person, had never wanted to think about her own death. Not until they moved to Cloverport. Not until it started happening.

It started subtly. The thoughts invading her dreams at first.

She would never tell any of her friends, but she's still terrified of wolves, like a child. She had lived up north for a while, and occasionally there would be a sighting, and she wouldn't sleep that night, terrified it was coming for her. Getting Little Red Riding Hood as a bedtime had been a punishment.

So when her dreams began to consist of hungry yellow eyes, growling, and claws, she had dismissed it as a bad run of nightmares. And then the growls started showing up in her day to day life, and she could feel the huffing, hungry breaths of the wolf on her back, making her shiver with fear.

She starts withdrawing from the few friends she'd made since she arrived. Stops going to Jazz Band Rehearsals to the point that she's kicked out, and she knows the other guitarist must hate her for it. But she can't go, she just can't. She starts ditching school, playing hooky and just lies in bed, listening to the scratching the walls and the distant howling.

She hates it. It's ruining her life, ruining her mind, ruining her, the paralysing fear that one day the wolf might attack.

Her parents watch her more closely from the moment they get called about her grades and attendance falling, and she gets a lecture about how just because they've moved, it doesn't mean she can just let her aspirations go. As though they were her aspirations to begin with.

Either way, they start to force her out of bed, start to make her do things. And once holidays begin, they make her get a job, make her start saving for the prestigious college they will make sure she gets into. And she's still terrified to leave her room. Finally the dreams progress, and she sighed a breath of relief for a brief moment, before the dreams showed her body being torn to shreds by claws and yellowing canine teeth, that seemed to be attached to a mouth that wasn't canine. She didn't want to think about it.

But she starts to get these visions when she's awake as well, handing out coupons at the front of the store, she reaches forward, and her arm is torn to shreds, she's bleeding out on the laminate floor, and nobody else sees it. She barely contains the scream clawing at her throat, like the claws in her arm.

That's when she decides to end it. She does her research, she goes to the library and finds a long list of children, teenagers, who acted odd, seemed off to their parents and then were found dead. The most recent being Adrian Mellon, a fourteen year old boy who died back in 1986.

She talks to locals. Hears about the willow tree in the orchard, old and dilapidated, run down after the Mellon’s left town. Everybody got an odd feeling around that willow tree.

So she sneaks out of her house one summer night, warm and mild, having stolen her father's gun from it’s cabinet. She is going to end this, whether what she was ending was the thing hurting her, or whether it was herself. She doesn't care as long as it stops.

She clutches the cold metal in her hand like it's a security blanket as she walks into the orchard, and as soon as she gets to a clearing she realises the sheer size of the place. It's giant, bigger than the rest of the town, probably. And all of the trees are uncared for, all these ripe apples still on their branches, the trees having not been seen by an arborist in entirely too long, she decides.

This place is fucking creepy at four am, she thinks. She can hear that growling over her shoulder. And she's so scared. But she keeps going, taking the directions she had been told, veer right, stray from the path and you're bound to end up there at some point.

Everybody ends up at the willow tree.

She walks for a long time. So long she can see the start of the sunrise. Her thin red nightgown flutters around her thighs, and she realises this is how she's going to be found, in a nightgown, terrified, with unwashed hair, a stolen gun, and a spotty face. Perfect.

She barely realises it when she comes upon the tree, but she trips on a root she didn't realise was there, and ends up falling flat on her face. And the growling gets louder.

This is the place. She can tell. She pushes herself to her feet, and whirls around, tried to see the wolf, find it, kill it, make it go away forever. She wants it gone. She wants to be happy again. So she doesn't hesitate to put her finger on the trigger and to cock the gun.

It's still too dark, even with the sun creeping over the horizon, it's too dark to see the wolf she knows is there. She can hear it growling, circling her, snapping it's jaw at her, and she's fucking terrified, but she won't hesitate to shoot. She's going to kill it, she's going to rid the world of one more monster, she s going to do it, she's going to-

And her eyes land on a boy. A boy she thinks she's seen before, in school maybe, with his arms wrapped around knees that are curled to his chest. And he's sobbing, his eyes squeezed closed. His glasses were slipping down his nose with the tears, and his fingers were digging into his arms.

Dayna drops her arm, looking at him. Why was he out here? Why on earth would anybody in their right mind be out here? She took a step towards him, light breeze fluttering her nightgown and passing him without moving his hair or any article of his clothing. That's when she realises he's not really here. He's like the wolf. Real, but not on this plane of existence.

“Who are you?” She asks. What are you? She thinks.

The boy looks up at her, eyes snapping open, and his fingers tighten, blood dribbling down his arms from where his nails have dug into his arms. His eyes were wild as they focused on her, and she has to resist the urge to step back.

“ _We all float down here._ ” He says, and it feels like he's looking through her.

“What does that mean?” She asks.

“ _We all float down here._ ” He repeats, and it's like he doesn't even know he's speaking to a person. It's like he's repeating an epiphany, and the blood keeps flowing.

She's so distracted by him, that she is taken by horrified surprise when the wolf she hadn't been able to see lunges.

Pain shoots down her arm, and a huge dark shape runs by her, and she realises, and she looks at it, that she's been bitten, that it's torn half the muscle from her arm, that she can see bone. She almost throws up, but she throws her other arm up, keeps her other arm steady as she cries out in pain, follows the wolf with her arm, aiming, shooting, missing by a half inch, and it's lunging back at her again, scratching at her leg and she shoots and misses again, distracted by its yellow eyes and yellow teeth.

She's losing blood at an alarming rate, and she knows it's only spurring it on, the blood, her fear, It can smell it, and she can tell It likes it, and she shoots as it dances from leg to leg, deciding which side to attack from this time.

There are tears hitting her chest having made their way down her face, and she doesn't remember starting to cry, but she accepts it now. Add ‘red eyed’ to the list of things they'll notice when they find her body. This is a stupid idea, a plan that was not thought out as well as it should have been and she's going to die here. She's going to _die_ , and the wolf is going to _live_.

She takes two more shaky shots at it, missing both times, and the wolf grins like it knows it's defeated her. It leaps straight at her, and swipes its claws across her chest, shredding her nightgown, turning it a darker shade of red.

Her blood is pooling in the grass, and the wolf howls it's victory.

And she can feel something inside her being tugged from her grip, something unnameable, but vital, and she realises what she's known all along. This isn't a normal wolf, hungry and greedy as it is. It's more, and this is how it feeds. It's feeding on her, growing stronger on her strength. And she knows what she has to do.

“Not today, motherfucker.” She chokes out, and lifts the gun to her own head with her less damaged arm.

She doesn't have time to go fully cold before he finds her body.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That was a thing. Back to your regularly scheduled programming, when we might see these babies in the same place at the same time. Who knows. 
> 
> I do. I know. 
> 
> Leave a comment and/or kudos if you're enjoying this. Please let us know! We love yo hear from you guys! 
> 
> Have a lovely day, and look forward to hearing from ls201 in the next couple of days!


	8. seven: you're a little less alone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And most of all, Evan can’t believe that they’ve all come together like this. To share their feelings and hallucinations with each other, it’s a little out of character for some of them. Alana doing it, sure, Evan gets that. He’s heard her share personal details and intimate stories before, in speeches and at Key Club meetings and for jazz band fundraisers. And Zoe, she’s sweet, so if she thinks it’s for the common good of beating It, the idea of her telling them about her hallucinations isn’t outlandish. But Jared? Connor? They’re really not the emotional type, and considering how personalized the attacks seem to be, Evan’s at a loss as to why they’re here to basically spill their guts.
> 
> Maybe it shows just how desperate they’ve gotten, how they’re willing to try anything, expose their vulnerabilities completely if it means getting rid of this thing. Evan supposes that’d be kind of beautiful, in a twisted sort of way, if it weren’t so utterly terrifying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello hello!! it's ls201 with a new chapter, this one from evan's pov :) i had to post this right before running out to go do senior portraits so if i've made any typos, please let me know and i'll correct them later. thank you for the love and support as always, and i promise i'll get around to responding to comments soon, work has just been crazy! 
> 
> trigger warnings: none that i can think of? pls let me know if i should add any
> 
> chapter title from "you will be found" from dear evan hansen

_seven._

If  you were to ask Evan Hansen one thing he’d expected from his senior year, the answer certainly would not have involved cutting class on the fourth day of school to end up on Alana Beck’s living room couch.

 

Yet here he is, Jared to one side of him, Zoe Murphy on the other. Connor’s slouching in an arm chair, long legs dangling off the edge, and Alana’s in the kitchen, making tea for all of them. Evan doesn’t really consider himself a big tea drinker, but Alana has promised chamomile, and what with the awful hallucination from Monday still bothering him, Evan figures he could probably use the relief.

 

He just can’t believe who he’s here with, or that they’re even here at all. Jared was the least surprising, given that Evan’s been aware of his difficulties sleeping for ages, but he’s still kind of in shock that his guarded friend agreed to come to this meeting and share his struggles with everyone. Alana, well, she’d always seemed too perfect, too together to be battling the same kind of demons he’s been fighting, but when she’d told him about her hallucinations in the computer lab, some part of him, deep down, had nodded along, not surprised at all. Her eyes have always looked a little haunted, if he’s honest. 

 

The idea of Connor suffering from hallucinations wasn’t all that out there, either. It would certainly explain the random episodes of wandering through the hallways, banging against lockers like he has to feel his way out, the tears Evan’s seen him try to hide before his sister inevitably arrives. And the pain, the raw hurt Evan had glimpsed in his eyes Monday morning, when Jared had commented on his hair — it would explain at least a bit of that, too.

 

But _Zoe_? She’s been the biggest surprise of anyone. Connor’s sister is a year below the rest of them, a junior, so Evan doesn’t interact with her all that often, just sees her in the hallways every now and then, has shared a couple Spanish classes with the younger girl. He knows she’s an amazing guitarist — when they’d been partnered together for a project in Spanish 3 last year, he’d developed an intense crush and managed to drag Jared along to the winter jazz band concert. She’d had a solo, and Evan can still recall the way his jaw had dropped, the final note of her piece ringing in the air, his palms gone sweaty. He’d wanted to stick around and congratulate her on a job well done, but then he’d remembered that girls like Zoe Murphy deserve better than anxiety-ridden losers, and Jared had driven them home. _That’s_ what Evan remembers about Zoe — he’s never seen any sort of sadness or exhaustion or anger from her. The most emotional distress she’d ever displayed around him was a frustrated sigh, a confession of worry after she’d gotten back a 75 on her Spanish test.

 

She’d never hinted at hallucinations, and Evan would never even guess that she’s been one of Its victims all this time. All he knows from Zoe is music and smiles and tosses of shiny hair in the hallway, throwing her head back as she laughs at one of her friends’ jokes. Gentle hands supporting her brother through an attack, sure. But another one of Its targets? No way.

 

And most of all, Evan can’t believe that they’ve all come together like this. To share their feelings and hallucinations with each other, it’s a little out of character for some of them. Alana doing it, sure, Evan gets that. He’s heard her share personal details and intimate stories before, in speeches and at Key Club meetings and for jazz band fundraisers. And Zoe, she’s sweet, so if she thinks it’s for the common good ofbeating It, the idea of her telling them about her hallucinations isn’t outlandish. But Jared? _Connor?_ They’re really not the emotional type, and considering how personalized the attacks seem to be, Evan’s at a loss as to why they’re here to basically spill their guts.

 

Maybe it shows just how desperate they’ve gotten, how they’re willing to try _anything_ , expose their vulnerabilities completely if it means getting rid of this thing. Evan supposes that’d be kind of beautiful, in a twisted sort of way, if it weren’t so utterly _terrifying_. 

 

To his right, Zoe clears her throat a little. “What do you guys think It is?” she says. Her hands are folded in her lap, but Evan can see from here how badly they’re shaking. She keeps rubbing at her fingers, like they’re going numb or something. A band-aid is wrapped around the tip of her right pointer finger, and Evan wonders where that came from. He’d ask, but he doesn’t want to pry.

 

He glances around the room, half-expecting a glass box to pop up at any second now that they’ve mentioned It. They’re not safe from It, not here, not anywhere, and it’d be stupid to let their guards down. “A demon,” he murmurs, eyes lowering to the floor and cheeks burning as Jared snorts next to him. It was a pretty dumb thing to say, he should’ve just kept his mouth shut — 

 

“A dancing demon,” Jared adds. Evan’s brow furrows, not quite sure where that particular image is coming from. He glances over at the lanky boy in the arm chair when a tiny chuckle sounds from his side of the room. 

 

Connor’s grinning, eyes crinkling with it. “No, something isn’t right, there,” he says, voice lilting. He and Jared mime a high-five, the two boys too far away from each other to actually follow through, and Evan’s completely confused now. Is this some inside joke between them, or some piece of knowledge he hasn’t been let in on? Is he always going to be an outsider like this, even amongst the four people who should understand him better than anyone?

 

“I don’t get it,” he mumbles, foot tapping a nervous beat against the carpet.

 

Zoe laughs. “Heathen,” she teases. Jared pokes his shoulder, and Evan turns to see him mouthing, _“Buffy the Vampire Slayer_.” Oh, okay — that explains a lot. He’s never watched that show before.

 

“Tea’s ready!” Alana calls from the kitchen. “But please come in here to drink it — I don’t want anyone staining the rug, my mom will kill me.” 

 

Evan’s throat is too tight to properly drink tea, he decides. He opts to stay on the couch, Zoe and Jared both disappearing into the kitchen. Connor remains sprawled across the arm chair. Evan swallows hard.

 

They’re silent for a few minutes, simply listening to the soundtrack of chatter and clinking cups coming from the kitchen, and the tightness in Evan’s throat has only just started to ease when Connor finally speaks up. “So, uh, how long have you been getting the attacks?” He seems hesitant, so uncertain, and Evan can’t quite reconcile this with the image of the furious boy from school, always brimming with anger and hurt.

 

“A-almost ten years,” he says softly, drawing his knees to his chest. “W-what about you?”

 

“Thirteen.” Evan’s staring at him with wide eyes, and Connor’s lips quirk into a half-smile. “I know, lucky number, right? They started when I was four, though it’s kind of hard to tell if some of the attacks were actually just seizures.”

 

Evan raises a brow at the mention of seizures, and Connor fills in, “I’m epileptic. Diagnosed at seven.” 

 

“Oh. I’m — I’m sorry. That must be really hard.” Evan can’t tell if he’s said the wrong thing or not, and the pressure in his chest grows when Connor blanches at the apology, quickly bending over to fiddle with the laces on his combat boot.

 

“It’s fine — well, not really, but it’s. Whatever,” Connor says. “Wouldn’t be life if it was fair, right?” He doesn’t sound like he believes his own lie, and Evan’s acutely aware of how uncomfortable that makes the both of them.

 

“I wish life was fair,” he admits, focusing on a spot on the wall. “M-my parents divorced because of me. I started getting the attacks right after. If life was fair, they’d still be together, or — or at least I wouldn’t be the reason why my dad left.” 

 

Evan hears the creak of a chair as Connor shifts in his seat, and he can feel the other boy’s eyes on him. “Do you miss him?” Connor asks.

 

Evan shrugs, surprising himself with his honesty. “He has a n-new family, out in Colorado, so there’s n-not really much to miss,” he confesses. “He calls, like, twice a year. I-I think my mom still hates him for what happened—” He freezes, instantly clamming up. He’s said too much. Connor’s gonna think he’s a freak.

 

“What do you mean?” Evan doesn’t respond, screwing his eyes shut and trying not to panic. _You fucked up, youfuckedupyoufuckedup_ — “Evan?”

 

The sofa dips under the added weight, and Evan stiffens, knowing Connor’s now sitting next to him. He wasn’t expecting this, wasn’t expecting that something about the curly-haired loner would prompt him to share his entire life story, wasn’t expecting that someone like Connor would want to comfort him in this way.

 

And he definitely wasn’t expecting Connor’s hand on his shoulder, the gentle comfort of his fingers pressing into the fabric of Evan’s T-shirt, the way his nerves light up where Connor’s touching him.

 

“It’s okay,” Connor breathes. “I get it.”

 

Evan twists around, locking eyes with the taller boy. Has he really never noticed the patch of brown in his right eye, so warm in contrast to the bright blue? Why hasn’t he ever seen the light dusting of freckles across the bridge of Connor’s nose, so innocent when compared to the harsh black of his clothes and the years of pain in his gaze? How can you go to school with the same person for years, over half your life, and never catch all these tiny details? Is he truly that blind?

 

Evan realizes with a jolt that their faces are mere inches apart, and he jerks back, an indecipherable expression flashing across Connor’s features. “What do you mean?” Evan whispers, half-dazed from what’s just happened.

 

“My parents’ marriage started falling apart the second I got diagnosed,” Connor says quietly. “I don’t think they’ve stopped fighting since. They see me as this fragile kid who needs to be protected from the world, and I _hate_ that. It’s just smothering, y’know? So I make everybody think the world needs to be protected from me. Cuz it’s easier that way.” He takes a deep breath, then adds, “What I’m trying to say is that I get it. I get what it’s like to be at the center of your parents’ conflict. And I get what it’s like, with the attacks… Feeling like you’re being cut off from the world…” He trails off, but Evan understands perfectly, doesn’t need him to finish his sentence. Alana must have told him about what Evan’s attacks are like, because Connor seems to comprehend the worst parts of them so well. The sense of isolation, of being totally alone, and the resulting trauma that brings. 

 

He’s not alone in his fear of being alone. And Evan’s so relieved to know that.

 

He hopes Connor is relieved, too. 

 

And for once, he’s almost weirdly thankful for It. Not because of the hallucinations or the hospital bills or the absence of his father.

 

Because of this new connection, this mutual understanding he’s found with Connor. 

 

Because now he believes he might just be a little less alone. 

 

And because he’s got a new purpose in life, something to focus on and get him through even the worst days.

 

He wants to get close to Connor Murphy.

 

And he wants to make sure that Connor never feels alone again.

 

He _will_ make sure of that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hope you enjoyed! next chapter's coming from HamiltonTrash, get excited!!! as always, you can follow me, HamiltonTrash, and nosecoffee on Tumblr at @cake-snake and @nose-coffee , respectively.


	9. eight: chaos never happens if it's never seen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I'm Alana Beck, I've been seeing things for five years, and I see blood, mostly.”
> 
> She bites her lip, and looks around, waiting for someone to question her, laugh at her, mock her. But no one does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey kiddos, it's actually HamiltonTrash back with another chapter, and at the right time this time! 
> 
> So, as far as this chapter, content warnings are pretty soft. Content warnings include: discussion of past trauma, self deprative talk, and I little bit of description of body horror (but it's fast, I promise) and that's it!
> 
> Chapter title from 'Welcome to Our House on Maple Avenue', Fun Home - because, once again, we're all musical trash. 
> 
> Now, let's let these kids talk.

_eight._

Gathering everyone here had seemed like a good idea at first. It wasn't like it was a bad idea at all. But Alana realised, as she sat down with everyone, tea in hand, that she had no idea where to start. They all knew what they had in common.

And honestly, she'd only been expecting Evan and Zoe. When Jared and Connor had shown up as well, it had left her reeling. She wasn't prepared for all these people. She wasn't prepared to share this with all these people.

Eventually Evan and Connor had joined them in the kitchen, after a while of sitting in the lounge room, and Alana had to wonder what they had talked about, and why. They seemed so different, those two, like chalk and cheese, and she couldn't imagine a conversation between them that wasn't stilted by Connor's anger and Evan's anxiety.

Evan looked just about as uncomfortable as her, standing around the kitchen counter with everyone, he not touching his tea. The rest sat with blank faces, holding their mugs in their hands, occasionally taking sips, except of course for Connor, who had opted for water. Once again, it was up to Alana to keep things moving.

“Maybe, we should say how they started,” She suggested. “For each of us. I mean. Um. Okay. We're gonna do this like an AA meeting because I have no idea how else to do this. Introduce yourself, how long you've been experiencing it… and what you see, I guess. I'll start. I'm Alana Beck, I've been seeing things for five years, and I see blood, mostly.”

She bites her lip, and looks around, waiting for someone to question her, laugh at her, mock her. But no one does. Jared finally takes a deep breath, and begins.

“I'm Jared Kleinman, I've been seeing things, uh, hearing things for seven years now. And I see eyes.” He looks down at his lap, fingers tightening around the mug, and Alana can tell, that like her, he's waiting for someone to laugh at him. Nobody does.

“I'm Zoe Murphy, I've been seeing things for three years now, and-” her confidence falters, even as she holds her back straight, her chin high, she looks down for a moment. “I um, I see myself wasting away- I hear-” she looks over at Alana desperately. “I'm sorry, can I- can I not?”

Alana smiles softly and nods her head. If she wasn't comfortable sharing the whole thing, then Alana wasn't about to force her to say anything.

Evan clears his throat, and all of a sudden all eyes are on him and he freezes. He seems to hesitate for a moment, and Alana is about to say that they could move on when he starts speaking.

“I'm Evan Hansen, I've been seeing things for, uh, ten years now-” Alana sees Zoe shift in her chair, obviously uncomfortable, knowing she had been suffering for significantly less time than Evan. “- and I see- Well I see things. For a long time it was a- uh, clown. And, um, now, usually it'll trap me, kind of like a glass box situation. I won't be able to escape, and no one can really see me- and uh, I'm sorry, I've probably been rambling for long enough now, you all want me to shut up, I'm sorry, I will, sorry.”

His shoulders hunch around his ears, his fingers find the hem of his shirt, his lip is between his teeth, and Alana reaches out to put a hand on his arm, and comfort him, but somehow, for some reason, Connor's hand finds itself there first.

Connor then looks up, hyper aware that it's his turn.

He looks down at his feet, and Alana can see him falter back into that hard and angry facial expression he usually wore to ward everyone off.

“I'm Connor Murphy,” He begins, and takes a deep breath. “And it's been making me go blind at random intervals for just over thirteen years now.”

Alana can't help her eyes going wide, and she can even see Zoe looking shocked at what she's heard, though she grew up with him. Evan, however, doesn't look surprised. He nods, and Alana realises that he has been experiencing his visions for almost as long as him. Evan knows, Alana thinks, Evan understands how it is.

“Thirteen years?” Jared asks, astounded.

“It happened for the first time when I was four.” Connor doesn't look up, and all of a sudden Alana can't help but feel guilty for having felt like there was no pain greater than hers. To have these kinds of attacks happening at random for thirteen years sounded awful. Her mere five seemed exceptionally small, insignificant next to Connor's suffering.

When Connor had first come through her door, he was the only person she hadn't been told was coming. Because why on earth would Jared Kleinman (who invited him?) think to tell her- the host - that he had invited someone else. Seeing him come through her door, tall, his hair covering half of his face, sticking close to Zoe, her immediate thought was that he didn't belong. He was going to listen in on what they were talking about and laugh at them, call them crazy.

It never occurred to her that they were calling him crazy far before they were scared of being called crazy.

She feels ashamed almost, looking at him, knowing now what she does about him.

“It's funny, I- uh- that time in second grade that everyone remembers, when I threw a printer at a teacher-” Connor laughs humorlessly, and Alana sees Jared cringe, and she just knows Jared has laughed about this, as most of the student body has. “-it was laughing at me, and I was just so angry and tired of it, and I just couldn't see. And I pinpointed where I thought the laughing was coming from and I just picked up the nearest thing, and it was just so heavy, and- and I threw it. And that's when I figured out that the laughing wasn't coming from someone around me. That it was inside of my head.” Connor laughs again, but nobody else feels like it, nobody else finds that funny.

“So you hear the laughing too?” Evan asks quietly.

Connor nods, and Jared chimes in. “It's so loud. It hurts my ears, it's deafening.”

“Does it-” Zoe clears her throat. “Does it ever make you hear things? Like, other than the laughter?” She seems to generally be asking the room, but Alana watches Jared blanch and look down at his lap. She knows something struck a nerve there.

Connor looks at her. “It spoke to me the other day. In class. While I was blind. It taunted me. It kept saying this thing about floating-”

“‘When you're down here, you'll float too.’” Evan says absently, and his hand has moved to his scarred arm again, and all eyes are on him, and he doesn't seem to have noticed.

Jared reaches out to Evan and makes eye contact, the two of them see to have a conversation purely in facial expressions before Jared pulls back.

“How did you get that scar, Evan?” Zoe asks, hesitantly.

Evan looks down. “It. It, uh, tried to take my arm off the first time I had a hallucination- vision- attack- whatever we’re calling them. I was lucky that my mom was close by.”

Zoe's face stays stoic, but there is fear in her eyes. “So It has the power to affect the physical world too. The visions, It can actually make them happen?”

Evan nods, and his fingers continue to trace the scars. He seems to be oblivious to the anxiety he has caused Zoe.

“Zoe- you don't have to share, but what exactly is it that It shows you?” Jared asks.

Zoe looks up at Alana, who had been so supportive when she had declined to go into details when they went around the circle, and Alana gives her a comforting smile to encourage her.

“It varies. Usually it's something to do with my guitar, my fingers- the flesh being pulled back to bone, until there's nothing left- and then I'm nothing. Nothing but dust and ashes. Nothing but bare bones. But sometimes…”

“Sometimes?” Connor asks, and Zoe looks at him fearfully, not like she fears him, more like she fears what she's going to say will hurt him.

“Sometimes it makes me hear things.” She whispers, a deep hurt in her voice.

“It talks to you?” Jared again, sounding almost hopeful, hoping, Alana thinks, that she experiences the same thing as him. She makes a mental note to ask him about his experiences after this.

Zoe shakes her head. “People. My parents fighting- about what a disappointment I am.” She pulls in a deep breath. “And- and Connor-”

Connor freezes, and closes his eyes, readying himself for the hurt that was bound to come. “What- what does it say? What does it make me sound like?”

“Like a monster. Like you're not my brother anymore. Like you want to kill me.” Zoe seems to be curling in on herself, protecting herself from the outside world; her face is all closed off, already, and Connor's face is going stony.

Alana can't imagine what it feels like for Connor to be told that one of the tools It uses to taunt his sister with, uses to hurt her, torture her, is him.

Jared, uncomfortable as he so obviously is, and unable to let a bad mood sit over a conversation, chimes in. “Well, It tells me I'm fat and not worth loving, so I get where you're coming from.”

His voice has a touch of humour to it, but Alana can tell it's a cry for help. “Jared, you're neither of those things.” She says, and she watches Jared's face soften, as though ready to let the real emotion out, and then harden back into his joking face, a shield, Alana has learned, that he uses to protect himself from the outside world.

“No, it's funny, really-”

“But it's not. How long has It been telling you that?” She says forcefully.

He sighs, admitting defeat. “For almost as long as I've been hearing It.”

Alana sighs. “Jared, every person on this earth is worth loving, deserves to be loved by somebody. It is wrong. You're worthy of every good thing that comes your way.”

And this time that soft expression comes back, and nothing takes its place. “Thanks.”

A silence takes over the group, solemn and understanding. They are so similar, more similar than it seemed, and it's so shocking how some of them have come out of their shells.

“What do you think It is?” Zoe repeats her question from before, but the mood is different now, and no one wants to make a joke.

“Dead meat when I get my fucking hands on it.” Connor replies, and there’s no doubt in Alana’s mind that he means it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alrighty, hope y'all enjoyed that. 
> 
> So the next two chapters come to you from the lovely nosecoffee, who is the queen of fluff and humour, so I'm gonna promise you a few Soft chapters. This is a reprieve, of sorts, before we get to hurting these children further. (Sorry, we love them, but it's a necessary evil.) 
> 
> Please leave kudos and comments to get us to add relationship tags faster, and also to make us more productive. (Get your fanfiction authours to update faster with this one weird trick, it really works!) 
> 
> Have a lovely day, we look forward to seeing you in the next update! 
> 
> H.


	10. nine: can anybody see?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What did you see?” Connor questions, and doesn't lift his eyes.
> 
>  _I saw a clown,_ whispers a frightened, young voice in his head. It sounds too close to how Evan used to speak, before his voice broke.
> 
> Jared shakes his head, unable to shape the words. “It's not my story to tell.” He says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WHASSUP!!!!!!! It's nosecoffee! Did you guys miss me? Whatever.
> 
> Hey, so, trigger warnings are pretty small, this chapter, because this is actually kinda fluffy. However, I gotta Bec careful.
> 
> Clown (like, bad, evil clown, clown who hurts people)  
> Mentions of blood  
> Self deprecation
> 
> Chapter title from 'Waving Through A Window' from Dear Evan Hansen
> 
> Hope you enjoy this chapter! It's actually been my favourite to write!

_nine._

 

In Jared’s dream, the yellow eyes are attached to a face. The face is paler than Connor is, and that's saying something. Connor Murphy is basically a vampire, with how pale he is.

This face is painted white, Jared realises. The face has painted on eyebrows, high on its forehead, almost comically. It wears a rubber nose, about as bright red as a ladybug. It's mouth is painted the same shade of red. And when it smiles, it reveals yellowed, rotting teeth, teeth that are too long, too canine for this mouth. The entire picture, together, reveals a terrifying face.

Jared squeezes his eyes shut, in the dream. He doesn't want to look at the face.

He counts to ten, hoping that it’s gone when he opens his eyes again, and takes a deep breath. He looks.

The face is still there, but now, there is red hair, standing up on end, and a body in a yellow patchwork clown suit. It has long claws, with blackened nails. It holds a bunch of assorted balloons in one hand, and a waxed paper boat in the other.

 _“Would you like it back?”_ Asks the clown, in a voice that is all too familiar, and sends shudders rolling through Jared’s body. He holds out the paper boat, in almost offering.

“What?” Jared asks. “The boat?”

 _“Or do you not want it anymore?”_ The clown pouts, in a horribly-mocking manner. _“Is the fun spoiled?”_

“I don't want anything from you!” Jared yells. He doesn't recognise anything. Somewhere, deep down, he knows this is a dream, knows he should fight to escape it, but, at this point, he's too confused, too muddled, to bring it to the forefront of his mind.

 _“Or would you like a balloon, instead?”_ The clown then drops the boat - it disappears - and transfers a red balloon to its now empty hand. It offers it to Jared, or, at least in Jared’s direction.

He can't help but be repulsed by the gift, if it can even be called that. “I want you to go away, forever!”

 _“Of course, it floats!”_ The clown laughs, and Jared gets an inkling that it isn't even talking to him. Like it can't hear him. Like he's only a spectator. Like… _“We all float down here, Evan!”_

“Evan?” Jared echoes, and realises what this means. He takes another look at its claws, and remembers the long, jagged scar that runs the length of Evan’s left arm. Jared looks back up to the grinning clown, and sees that it isn't even looking at him.

It's looking at something behind him. Looking _through him._

Jared whips around and looks down, and there's Evan. But smaller, younger, smiling.

Reaching out his hand, as if to take the balloon.

And Jared understands.

Remembers, vaguely, hearing Evan murmur that same sentence in his sleep, or under his breath when he thinks no one’s listening.

_‘We all float down here.’_

Jared watches in horror as the clown steps forward to present Evan with the balloon, and watches it's mouth contort with hunger, and watches it bare its teeth.

Jared looks away before Evan’s hand closes around the balloon string, but blood still splatters on his shoes and his jeans, and he still hears Evan scream (and Jared has never, in his life, heard Evan scream, not even when Jared used to try and scare him at Halloween), and he hears that terrible laugh in his ears, that he now recognises as the clown.

And, by some miracle, he wakes up.

\- -

Jared starts awake, in the dark, and he actually cannot remember going to sleep.

He feels movement to his right and shifts, looking to where Evan is wedged between him and Connor on the couch. His feet are curled up, underneath him, sneakers shed to the floor, and leaning into Connor’s chest. Connor’s arm is flung over Evan’s shoulders, his hand coming to rest on Evan’s bicep, fingers just an inch off the edge of his sleeve.

Fingers just brushing the edge of a shiny, deep, scar.

Jared struggles out of his slumped position, and leans over Evan, inspecting his arm.

There it is, the scar that he knows all too well, but now with more weight. Jared has to walk around with the memory of the eyes, each day, but that's nothing compared to physical evidence of trauma.

And Evan endures it. Jared doesn't think he's ever held Evan in a higher esteem.

“From what I hear, chicks dig scars.” Connor whispers, abruptly, and Jared jumps in fright.

“A little warning, next time?” He grumbles, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. It's a miracle he got any in the first place, even if it was plagued by a fucking demon clown.

“Sorry.” Connor mumbles. “Nightmare?”

“Yeah, something like that.” If a memory of Evan’s past trauma could be considered a nightmare, Jared’s life is the fucking _Twilight Zone._

“I get that.” Connor nods, and Jared doesn't miss the soothing hand he puts on Evan’s arm as Evan shifts, in his sleep.

Jared also hasn't missed the way Connor’s mediated into their little group. Alana, too, but Connor is a little more prominent than her, so he sticks out a little more, in Jared’s mind. It means that he's noticed how close he and Evan have been getting.

Jared waves a hand to dismiss the thought, and then frowns at the darkness. “Where are the girls?”

“Zoe’s driving Alana home. She only left a few minutes ago.” Connor replies, coolly, leaning his head against the back of the couch. “If you want a ride, we can probably drop you off on our way home, once Zoe gets back, and Ev wakes up.”

 _Ev._ The difference of eleven days and a few in-depth confessions. Jared decides to dismiss the thought, in favour of focusing on Connor’s offer. “Isn't Cottonwood Drive a little out of your way?” Jared jokes. Connor’s soft expression falls flat.

It just proves what Jared thought.

“And here I thought you just enjoyed my presence.” Jared lets the pretence fall. “What do you want to know?”

“You've been looking at me weirdly ever since the first meeting.” It's not what Jared’s expecting. He's understandably taken aback. “Why?”

Jared’s reluctant to say, but if they're going to be friends, they've got to be honest with each other, right? He takes a deep breath. “I had a dream about you.” Jared admits.

Connor blanches, and Jared laughs a little, when he realises what it sounds like he said. Evan shifts again, but doesn't wake. Jared knows for a fact that it takes an earthquake to wake that boy.

“Oh, my God.” Connor says, and uses his free hand to push some hair out of his face. “Look, Kleinman, you're attractive and all, but I don't like you like that-”

“Don't flatter yourself, Murphy.” Jared interrupts, holding up a hand. “It wasn't that kind of dream.”

“Okay. I mean, it's not even that big of a deal.” He wonders if Connor says it to himself, or to Jared. Then, he meets Jared’s eyes. “I'm gay.”

“Good to know.” Jared quips, and a small smile quirks at the corner of Connor’s mouth, like he wasn't expecting that kind of response. “I'm ambiguous. Not straight, though.”

“Sweet. Keep your options open.” Connor says.

“Go figure.” Jared nods at him.

A moment of companionable silence. And then Connor clears his throats and says, “So…”

Jared raises an eyebrow at him. “So?” He echoes.

“If it wasn't a, frankly, awkward sex dream, what was this dream about?”

Jared bites his lips, and glares at his hands. Does he even want to say?

“Hey, you brought it up.” Connor adds, a martyr with every syllable.

“...I saw you, as a kid. Like, hardly more than a toddler. You were running and laughing.”

Jared watches Connor pale. He knows, then, that this isn't just a dream, and he wonders where on Earth he found this memory.

“And then, I saw you trip. You hit the ground hard, but you were fine. Except, that you didn't get up. You were conscious, and not injured, but you were scared.” Jared sighs. “I saw your dad pick you up, dust you off, wipe away your tears, and lead you back to your mom, but you just looked lost. Like you'd suddenly lost your sight.”

“How did you know that?” Connor demands, and Jared jumps at the presence of a hardness in Connor’s tone that he hadn't heard since the first day of Senior year. “Who told you?”

“What?” Jared is beyond confused.

“You think this is funny?” There's agitation in Connor’s eyes, and they seem to glaze over, as if he's falling into a panic. And that's the last thing they need. “You think _‘I'll just tell the school freak about his first fucking epileptic attack and taunt him’,_ huh? Who told you about that?”

“No, Connor, I swear, I'm not trying to make fun of you.” Jared insists. He has no idea what to do to prove to him that there no malicious intent in him.

So, he grabs Connor’s hand, the one over Evan’s shoulder. Connor stills, quiet and breathless. Jared squeezes it, and releases.

Connor stares at him.

He has an uneasy look on his face, like he just wants to run away, like he doesn't want to remember. His spare hand reaches up and he presses the heel of his palm into his right eye.

“You really dreamed this?” The words are hardly audible, coming out in an exhausted breath. Jared wonders when the last time Connor slept was. Wonders why he cares.

“Yeah.” Jared says, nodding. Connor licks his lips, and his hand goes to his hair, tugging.

“So, when you woke up, just then,” there's a little more volume now, “did you dream it again?”

“No.” Connor looks at him, again, and Jared swallows a lump forming in his throat. “This time...this time, it was Evan.”

They both look to the boy in question, who clutches at Connor’s hoodie, in his sleep. Jared narrows his eyebrows, something on the edge of jealousy coursing through his veins.

“What did you see?” Connor questions, and doesn't lift his eyes.

 _I saw a clown,_ whispers a frightened, young voice in his head. It sounds too close to how Evan used to speak, before his voice broke _._

Jared shakes his head, unable to shape the words. “It's not my story to tell.” He says.

Connor nods, understanding, looking up, again. “Do you think It’s doing it on purpose?”

Jared laughs, shortly. “Definitely. I don't know what It thinks It’s doing, but showing me my friends suffer in my head, making me unable to escape? Probably just showing me that I'm broken, but not as deserving of reassurance as any of you.”

He's slipped. That didn't mean to come out. He shouldn't have opened his mouth.

Connor will pity him, now, and his pride battles back. The last thing he needs is Connor’s pity.

“Jared-” He starts, but Jared can already feel the walls slamming back down, can already feel the rocks in his hands, the war cries stuck in his throat. He can't be here. A nightmare filled with fear and confusion is better than the sad look in Connor’s eyes.

“Whatever.” He mumbles. “I'll just walk home.”

Jared goes to stand, and feels a hand on his wrist, soft and gentle, an offer, rather than an order. He turns, slowly, and Connor’s face is the most open and vulnerable that Jared’s seen since finding him in the park, two weeks ago. “In the dark, with a powerful-slash-homicidal force, beyond our control on the loose? I think not.” He says, and tugs lightly. “Stay put, Kleinman.”

“Didn't know you were into power play.” Jared jokes, but sits back down. He sees a peace set down in Connor’s eyes.

Connor laughs. “Oh, don't make me hit you.” He says.

“That's kinky.” Connor snorts at this. “What's next? Want me to call you ‘Daddy’?”

“Kindly shut the fuck up.” He retorts, and that only goads Jared on.

“Have I been a bad boy, Daddy?” Jared asks, laughter in his voice. Connor laughs, too, shaking his head, and giving Jared a disbelieving expression.

“Of all the sentences to wake up to, that is not one that I ever thought I'd hear.” Evan mumbles, and Jared watches Connor jump and blush. He can't tell if it was fright or embarrassment that caused the blush.

But there's something new in his eyes, as he looks down at Evan, a softness that wasn't there, a moment ago. His hand squeezes Evan’s arm, gently.

 _Huh,_ Jared thinks _. Huh._

“Jared’s just being an asshole.” Connor says, voice smooth, with a small tremor running through the middle like a flatline. _Huh._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Breaking news: we went on a writing spree today and pretty much wrote everything but the last two chapters. I don't know about you, but I'm pretty proud.
> 
> If you liked this chapter, please drop a comment, and you can tell us what you liked, or if there's something I missed in the trigger warnings. You can find us on Tumblr @nose-coffee (me) and @cake-snake (HamiltonTrash).
> 
> (Was that a trace of Treebros you spied? Check the tags my friends.)
> 
> Thanks so much, see you next chapter!
> 
> \- Lou.


	11. ten: no use for moonlight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Do you remember that time that I asked you to give me a nosebleed to get me out of PE?”
> 
> Connor puts a hand over his mouth. “Oh, my god.” He laughs. “I socked you, right in the nose, didn't I?”
> 
> “You did.” Jared agrees, with a smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from "I Never Planned On You" from Newsies
> 
> Hey. It's nosecoffee again! And, guess what? It's my birthday! Whoo! I don't think I've ever posted on my birthday before (I'd have to check).
> 
> Enough about me, here are your trigger warnings for this chapter
> 
> Brief mention of violence  
> Brief mention of suicidal ideation
> 
> That's about it. As stated in earlier notes, this chapter, and the following one are actually pretty soft/fluffy. This one I'm pretty proud of, even if I was in serious need of my absolutely fantastic coauthors to save me.
> 
> Hope you enjoy the chapter!

_ten._

 

Zoe arrives back at Evan’s house only a few minutes after Evan wakes back up. That’s fair. Evan lives on Oak street, and that's only a few streets over from Willow Lane. Alana probably could've walked. But at this point, none of them are willing to go out, in the dark, alone.

Zoe looks understandably bewildered when she walks in to find them all in stitches on the couch.

“What'd I miss?” She asks, twirling her car keys around her finger. They all look at her and then burst into laughter again. Zoe looks unimpressed. “Seriously?”

“It's...not...even...that...funny!” Jared gasps and Evan falls off the couch. Connor just laughs harder, at that.

“Why do I leave you alone?” She sighs, rubbing her face, in agitation.

“A true mistake.” Evan comments, wiping his eyes. “Sorry, sorry.”

“Right, Jared, are we giving you a lift?” Connor asks, calming himself down, and watches Evan go pale.

“You're leaving?” His voice is so small that Connor’s heart misses a beat. He swears.

“Ev, it’s nearly ten.” He tries to reason, and he's not sure if he's reasoning with Evan or with himself. Connor looks over at Zoe who looks bored out of her mind. “Our mom will be expecting us.”

Evan nods in understanding, but he still looks scared. Connor can understand why. “Okay.” Jared has a look on his face that says he's thinking hard about something.

“Hey, do you guys wanna go and get some burgers?” He asks them m suddenly, standing up from the floor and dusting his cargo shorts off.

“Really?” Zoe huffs, trying to sound annoyed, but Connor knows that she wants to go home just as much as he does, right now.

“Why not? There's a burger place near Alana’s place.” Evan adds, also standing up, putting his right hand onto his left arm, over his scar, rubbing it, nervously.

“We can pick her up, if I text her, now.” Zoe informs them.

“Sounds team building.” Jared jokes and Evan shoves him, lightheartedly.

“Let’s do it.” Connor agrees and Zoe herds them all out to the car.

\- -

They pick up Alana a few minutes later and drive a few metres down the road to the 24 hour, homebrand burger shop. They sell fries there, too, and Connor is immediately smitten.

“Why have we never been here, before?” He asks Zoe, who's standing next to him, staring, silently, at the menu above the teenaged employee behind the counter.

“Because we never get out of the house, dumbass.” She replies with a sigh in her voice. “Why does the schnitzel burger sound so good?”

“Because it’s actually heavenly?” Alana suggests, bumping her shoulder against Zoe’s, and they share a grin.

Connor kind of wants to know what's up with the blush creeping up Zoe’s neck. But then Evan’s saying something in Jared’s ear, and Jared’s striding up to the counter. “Hi, how big is the regular fries?” He ask.

The sleep deprived employee stoops down below the counter and comes back up with a reasonably sized paper bag. “If you buy two regular fries, you can get a third half off, but only for this week.” She tells them, in the most monotone voice ever.

Connor wonders how long her shift’s been. He kind of wants to sit her down and tell her that he'll make the burgers.

Jared nods politely at her and goes back over to Evan. Evan shuffles closer to Connor.

“Do we want to go for the three package deal?” Jared asks them.

Connor frowns. “Nah. We’ll get two regulars and then a small. Someone here gets to be the fifth wheel.”

Zoe’s eyes go wide. She presses her index finger to her nose. “Not it.”

Connor swears and does the same. “Not it.”

“Not it.” Evan says, scrambling to press a finger to his nose.

Alana steps on Jared’s foot and says, “Not it,” as he swears in pain. She looks a little smug.

Jared looks bitter, in comparison. “I cannot believe that I've been demoted.” He says, almost sadly. “What are your orders?”

“Uh, well, Zoe and I both want the schnitzel burgers.” Alana says.

“I'd like the bacon cheeseburger.” Connor says, and wanders over to the fridges, across the room.

He hears Evan and Jared go up to the counter and the girls follow him to the fridges. He thinks he hears Jared ask if the regular cheeseburger is kosher, and pulls a Diet Coke off the shelf.

Zoe snorts, picking up a creaming soda. “Weak-ass-bitch.” She murmurs, and then blushes as Alana reaches past her for the shelf of iced tea. Alana pulls a peach iced tea off the shelf.

“The boys can get their own drinks.” She tells them both with a small smile. Connor assumes it's because this is the first time they've met up, without talking about It.

“What would you like on your schnitzel burger?” The girl behind the counter asks, giving Jared a deadpanned look.

“Uh, mayonnaise,” Jared replies, absentmindedly. The girl sighs.

“...just…mayonnaise?” She asks him.

Evan stifles his laughter and Jared glances around at the rest of them. “Yeah.” He says, nodding his head. “Just mayonnaise.”

The girl seems absolutely done with him. But she does it, anyway.

\- -

Once they've all got their food, they go to sit out the front of the burger shop, where picnic tables with umbrellas are set up. They turn on their phone torches and point them upwards, as they unwrap their burgers.

Jared makes a big production of eating his schnitzel-mayo burger, and Evan keeps saying things like, “Gross!” Like he's not eating a coleslaw burger.

“Wait, wait, wait!” Jared yells through their conversation, and points to Connor. “Do you remember eighth grade?”

Connor snorts. “I'd rather not.” He replies. “But, yeah. Why?”

Jared smiles. “Do you remember that time that I asked you to give me a nosebleed to get me out of PE?”

Connor puts a hand over his mouth. “Oh, my god.” He laughs. “I socked you, right in the nose, didn't I?”

“You did.” Jared agrees. “Like, no hesitation. You just shrugged and you punched me right in the nose. I started crying and you felt bad, so you took me up to the front office.”

“And then I got suspended for breaking your nose.” Connor finishes.

“Yeah. Sorry about that.” Jared looks sheepish, but Connor grins, waving it away.

“I think we’re kinda even.” He informs Jared. “I did break your nose, after all.”

“From the bottom of my heart, where the actual fuck did that come from?” Zoe says, and Connor is brought back to reality where there are three other people sitting at the table with them.

“Agreed.” Connor says, turning back to Jared. “Fess up, Kleinman.”

Jared scowls at them. “I don't know. I was just thinking about how we all knew each other, sort of, before this, and how we could've gotten to each other sooner.” There's quiet. Then Jared coughs. “Also, I remembered the funny anecdote about Connor giving me nosebleed that not only got me out of PE, but school for a week.”

“You and me, both.” Connor says and allows Jared to fist bump him.

\- -

Zoe had parked the car as far away from the door as possible, because she wanted to get a parking space with no cars around it, despite everyone's complaints that it was 10:30pm, and no one would be there. Even so, the car is at the back of the lot, and they have to cross the whole thing as they leave.

And that's how Jared finds the unprotected wet cement.

“Guys!” He yells, “Come check this out!” He lifts a stick in the air, and then lowers it to start writing in the stuff, and Connor can't help but roll his eyes at the childlike behaviour.

“Is he always like this?” He asks Evan.

“I don't think he's never _not_ been like this.” He replies, and Connor has to stifle a chuckle.

Connor leans forward to see what Jared is writing in the concrete, just as Jared pulls back to reveal the hastily written (no, really, it could pass for a five year old's handwriting) _The Loser Club._

And he doesn't know why that doesn't hurt.

Loser has been a label foisted upon him for so many years now, and it should hurt to be called one by someone he's learning to be friends with. But looking around at these people who he's made a real connection with now, he can't help but feel happy to be included.

“Why The Loser Club, loser?” He jokes, and pushes Jared gently. His foot lands in the cement, just missing the writing he's created.

“Ugh, now look what you made me do! That. That is why we're called The Loser Club.”

“Because I pushed you into a little cement?” Connor asks. He hears a snicker behind him, and is surprised to find Evan there, stifling a laugh behind his hand.

“No. Because we're all losers in one way or another, but at least we get to be losers together now. Ugh, I'm never gonna get this off my shoe.” Connor rolls his eyes, and steps up to the square, and plants a foot beside Jared's fresh print. He hears Zoe move up beside him, and plant a print, and then Alana, and then Evan, quite hesitantly.

They leave a mark there, in the concrete by a 24 hour burger place, and Connor had never thought he could say such a strange thing about the legacy he might leave behind.

\- -

Connor actually can't understand why Evan’s the last one they drop off, but he is, and Connor’s actually kind of grateful. Zoe parks right out in front and Evan thanks them quietly, opening the car door.

It's a snap decision. Connor unclips his seatbelt and says, “I'll walk you up to the door.”

He sees Zoe’s pointed look, but gets out of the car anyway. Evan laughs, as Connor joins him on the sidewalk.

“You don't think that that’s a little excessive?” He asks, as they walk up the garden path to Evan’s front door.

“Not even a little bit.” Connor replies, and bumps their shoulders together. “A lot can happen between the car and the porch. A lot can happen between the porch and the front door.”

Evan climbs up the stairs, hand on the railing. “Well, thanks.”

“It's nothing.” He shakes his head, letting his hair fly out. Connor looks up and bites his lip, because this way, with Evan standing just off-centre from the porch light, he's half framed by the orange light. He looks...he doesn't want to think of it.

There's mayonnaise at the corner of Evan’s mouth. Connor doesn't know how long it's been there, but now that he's seen it, he can't look away. It'll bug him if he doesn't do somethin.

Connor steps up a step and wipes the mayonnaise away with his thumb. Evan goes still. Connor realises how close they are. Realised that he's staring at Evan’s mouth. He lets his eyes drift up. Evan’s staring at his mouth, with the same amount of bewildered attention. Connor really wants to step up another step, cup Evan’s chin. He really wants to kiss him.

Wants to kiss him like it’s his car idling in the street. Wants to kiss him like Jared and Zoe hadn't been there in the burger shop with them. Wants to kiss him like this is the end of their first date, not the end of a second meeting for psychos who got visions.

He wants to kiss Evan. That should scare him. It doesn't.

Connor just wants to be a normal fucking teenager with normal fucking urges. He doesn't want to have to stand on this porch and think that if he doesn't kiss Evan now he might never, because a fucking demon or whatever is haunting them, and continually threatening their lives.

He won't kiss Evan. Maybe, one day, he will. But not now.

Connor steps back, and watches the spell break. Watches the soft focus Evan had held falter and wither away. Watches a blush sprout in Evan’s cheeks, down his neck, and Connor swallows against his dry throat.

He smiles. “I'll see you tomorrow, at school, right?”

Evan nods, still looking dazed. “Yeah. School. Right.”

“Call me if something happens?”

Evan nods again, and Connor nods back.

“Good.” He walks backwards down the path. Evan gives a small wave and disappears into the house. Connor sighs and turns around.

Zoe doesn't say anything until they turn into Main Street. “That is the most romantically tense thing I have ever witnessed.”

Connor groans. “Please don't.”

She laughs, indicting onto the bridge. “No, really, I actually thought you were gonna kiss him. I was live chatting it to Alana.”

“Seriously?” Connor sighs.

“Yep.”

\- -

“What even was the pun?” Zoe asks, stopping Connor outside his bedroom door. Neither of their parents are home to see them come in, late. “The one that Evan said and had you in stitches?”

He smiles a little, at the memory. “Evan said _, ‘I've got 99 problems but a birch ain't one’.”_

Zoe gapes, “But that's _terrible.”_

“That's why it's funny.” He replies, and closes the door behind him before she can respond. Connor leans back against the door, and slides down it. He ends up sitting on the floor, looking up at the exposed beams, jutting out of his ceiling, and finds himself wondering when they became so unappealing to him.

Wonders when he stopped wishing life would just fuck off already.

(Maybe when he realised that it wasn't his brain fucking with him. Maybe when he realised that he wasn't the problem - the problem was It.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's the end of the chapter! If you liked it, please drop a comment, tell us what you liked, or if there's a typo or some trigger warning I didn't put down. It'll Ben no fuss to fix, plus we don't want anyone triggered by this.
> 
> Next chapter will be put up by the lovely @ls201, and it's a Zoe chapter, so look forward to that!
> 
> You can find us on Tumblr @nose-coffee (me) and @cake-snake (HamiltonTrash) and hit us up to chat or just follow, because we post updates for when we post new chapters on our blogs, so you can keep in touch, that way.
> 
> Thank you for reading! See you next chapter!


	12. eleven: to the dreams of youth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When she looks back up from the yearbook at the girl across from her, Alana is trembling all over, so badly she can’t even possibly attempt to conceal it. “Zoe, what if — what if I end up like her?” she says, voice high and thin.
> 
> Zoe’s heart aches for her, and she reaches forward, placing her hand on top of Alana’s. Their fingers intertwine, and Zoe squeezes gently, a gesture that’s always worked for Connor in moments of panic. “Hey,” she says softly, “that won’t be you. We’re gonna beat this, Alana. Trust me.”
> 
> And for a second, it’s like it’s just the two of them, no angry librarian, no yearbook full of dead kids, just — Alana and Zoe, senior class president and junior jazz band soloist, holding hands like everything is normal and death isn’t waiting just outside the door for them. It’s just Alana, looking at her like she’s just seen her for the first time. It’s just them. Only them.
> 
> And for a second, Zoe is so happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heyo, welcome to chapter eleven! it's been a while, huh? i'm super excited to post this chapter, it's a zoe chapter, complete with an unofficial galaxy girls/zolana library date, so that's like twice the excitement!
> 
> chapter title taken from "i want it all" by Queen. 
> 
> tw: slightly graphic description of cause of death, talk of murder
> 
> now, without further ado, let's hear from zoe!

_eleven._

Zoe  had come into her junior year with a lot of different expectations, but hanging out with Alana Beck at the local library on a Saturday morning was definitely one thing she hadn’t expected. Gaudy class rings with an embarrassing faux-ceremony to boot? Sure. Buying a homecoming T-shirt she’d probably never wear again? Why not. Consuming coffee by the gallon? An almost certain occurrence. But _this_? This is something straight out of a daydream, a closet fantasy, a scenario Zoe would’ve never dared to believe could come true.

 

But here she is, trying not to stare at Alana’s dimples from across the table as she pages through an old, yellowed yearbook. The little frown of concentration on her face is kind of adorable, Zoe thinks. Then she cringes immediately at that, because _whoa_ , this is so not like her. She doesn’t have room in her life for a crush, not when jazz band and school and Connor take up all available space and more. 

 

And before, that’s something Zoe had been fine with. She’s never had a problem with her life being so busy, has never felt the need to complain about being tugged in a million different directions. She’s even been relatively content with it — on most days, she’s been able to convince herself that she doesn’t mind going straight home from rehearsal to check on Connor, that she’s okay with getting pulled out of APUSH to go guide her brother around the hallways, that she doesn’t still hold a tiny grudge against her parents for missing every single one of her soccer games in elementary school to drag Connor to countless doctors’ appointments. Her life is just too damn _full_ to have room to worry about any of that stuff. 

 

But as she’s gotten closer to Alana, the supposed fullness of her life is starting to feel a little hollow, actually. Like she’s missing something. And deep down, Zoe finds herself wondering if Alana could help to fill that void. 

 

A chuckle from the girl across the table jolts Zoe out of her thoughts, and she leans forward to try and catch a glimpse of what someone so consistently serious could be laughing at. Alana notices that she’s trying to look at the yearbook and turns it toward her, angling it so she can see the entire page. It’s the Senior Superlatives spread, the same cheesy crap their school’s yearbook has done every year for as long as Zoe can remember, though the print is a little grainier than what she’s used to — the consequences of relying on a 1987 yearbook for information, she supposes.

 

The superlatives are ridiculously dumb, stuff like “Future President” (Zoe knows that one’s not accurate, since she’s pretty sure she’s seen that guy working at their local Domino’s a couple of times)and “Future Celebrity”, but they help her figure out what Alana was giggling at — a picture of the “Coolest Cars from the Class of ’87”. Most of the cars are decent for their time, but there’s one in particular that is utterly hideous, a mustard-colored Honda Civic covered in dents. The caption features the car’s owner, John Chamber, bragging about his “awesome paint job”. Zoe can’t help but let out an incredulous snort at that — was he blind or something?

 

Then she thinks of Connor, the word “blind” triggering many a bad memory, and the joke doesn’t seem all that funny anymore.

 

“I can’t believe he thought that was a good idea,” Alana says, smile so white, and Zoe just nods, at a temporary loss for words. She hands the yearbook back to the older girl, only to hear a loud gasp as she turns the page.

 

“What is it?” Zoe asks, ignoring the pointed glare the librarian sends their way (they’re the only people in the library right now, what does it matter).

 

“It’s a memorial page for the six kids who died that year,” Alana breathes, shoving the yearbook her way with shaky hands. “Three boys, three girls.”

 

Zoe scans the page quickly. Like Alana said, six teenagers had died in the fall of 1986 — Jake Chamber, Helen Shyers, Timothy Breakstone, Ruth Gatlin, Gretchen Brooks, and, of course, Adrian Mellon. For each name, there’s a little picture and their years of birth and death (it’s chilling to note that the latter of the two is the same for every single kid), and then a listing of any school activities they were involved in. 

 

Her eyes land on Helen Shyers, the girl with the longest listing of activities by far. In her school portrait, she’s bright and happy, all blonde-haired and blue-eyed, the quintessential American girl. Her smile kind of reminds Zoe of Alana’s, though, the placement of their dimples almost exactly the same, and she shivers a bit at that. She reads through Helen’s list of activities — President of the Key Club, Director of Fundraising for the Band, President of French Club, Captain of the Cheerleading Team, President of Debate Club, Student Council Vice President, Yearbook Editor, Co-Captain of Academic Decathlon.

 

_Oh my God._ They’re basically a match for Alana’s activities, give or take a few (Alana is definitely not a cheerleader). 

 

When she looks back up from the yearbook at the girl across from her, Alana is trembling all over, so badly she can’t even possibly attempt to conceal it. “Zoe, what if — what if I end up like her?” she says, voice high and thin. 

 

Zoe’s heart aches for her, and she reaches forward, placing her hand on top of Alana’s. Their fingers intertwine, and Zoe squeezes gently, a gesture that’s always worked for Connor in moments of panic. “Hey,” she says softly, “that won’t be you. We’re gonna beat this, Alana. Trust me.”

 

And for a second, it’s like it’s just the two of them, no angry librarian, no yearbook full of dead kids, just — Alana and Zoe, senior class president and junior jazz band soloist, holding hands like everything is normal and death isn’t waiting just outside the door for them. It’s just Alana, looking at her like she’s just seen her for the first time. It’s just them. Only them.

 

And for a second, Zoe is so happy.

 

Then she remembers that they’re here for a reason, and Alana probably doesn’t want to be here much longer, anyway, and so she pulls her hand away, and reality comes crashing back. Alana clears her throat, and Zoe closes the yearbook. “So, I guess we should look through the newspapers now?” Alana suggests.

 

Thirty minutes later, they’re seated in front of a giant microfiche machine, Alana having handled the hulking thing expertly and obtained all the information they needed, and Zoe is trying very hard not to throw up as they review what they’ve learned.

 

“Gretchen Brooks died first,” Zoe recites from memory, a wave of nausea slamming into her stomach. “She was discovered out in the country, in the middle of a road. She’d been clawed so badly they had to use dental records to identify her.” 

 

“Jake Chamber was fourteen,” Alana says, swallowing hard. “His body washed up on the shore of the Ohio River a few days after Adrian Mellon was murdered, but the coroner’s report found that he’d actually died a week before Adrian.” Zoe’s knuckles are white against the edge of the table.

 

“Ruth Gatlin was next,” Alana continues, glancing over at her. “She died under her own bed, but the coroner couldn’t determine an exact cause of death. Then came Timothy Breakstone, who drowned in the Cloverport water tower. Helen Shyers was last; a member of her squad stumbled on her body in the school gym. The coroner said she’d bled out, and her parents tried to sue the high school because she’d been seen just an hour before, leading practice for the cheerleaders’ homecoming game routine.” 

 

“They lost the case, though,” Zoe adds quietly, “and they moved out of town a couple months later.” That’s one of the most frustrating things about all of this, actually — all of the victims’ families are long gone, houses abandoned, phone numbers unlisted. They can’t go to anyone else for more information.

 

Except for one person. 

 

In the article about Adrian Mellon’s murder, a witness had been mentioned — a 12-year-old girl who’d found Adrian’s body and called the police. She’d been pegged as a suspect, and her identity had been released to the public only because she’d willingly come to the newspaper with her story to clear her name.

 

That little girl’s name was Heidi Hansen.

 

Zoe can only hope Evan won’t mind them interrogating his mother too much.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope you enjoyed that! next up is nosecoffee with an amazing little bit from someone we haven't actually heard from yet... get excited, i think you'll find it quite interesting!
> 
> until next time, lovelies! stay safe out there.
> 
> xo,  
> L


	13. second interlude: what made it special made it dangerous

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She turns, and sees the looks on their faces. They're not here for breakfast. That much is clear. Something in her sinks like a rock.
> 
> "Heidi, what happened to Adrian Mellon?" Jared asks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from 'Cloudbusting' by Kate Bush
> 
> WHASSUP, IT'S NOSECOFFEE, HERE IT IS, WE'RE BACK TO ANGST, AND HERE'S WHERE THINGS START TO GET MORE IN DEPTH. IT'S ALL GONNA GET DARKER FROM HERE. YOUR TW'S FOR THIS CHAPTER ARE
> 
> Blood  
> Finding a body  
> Panic  
> Guilt  
> Description of injury
> 
> Alright, here we go, it's HEIDI TIME!

“Mom?” Heidi Hansen looks up from the stove - it’s one of the rare days in which she's around to actually make breakfast. One of the rare days where she can make it from scratch. Heidi misses the Sunday mornings before Evan retreated into himself, before Evan had better things to do than have breakfast with her, before Heidi didn't have time for Sunday pancake breakfasts.

She smiles at him. He doesn't smile back. That worries her. “Honey, what's wrong?” Heidi lifts the pancake out of the pan and turns the stove off. It doesn't matter that she still has half a bowl of batter to go.

“How long are you gonna be around today?” He asks, and Heidi can't help but smile when he says the sentence without stuttering.

“Until one.” She replies. Evan nods, obviously pleased with the answer. “I’ve only got a short shift today, since Erica got back.”

“Do you mind if my friends come around for breakfast?” Heidi lets the hope in her chest bloom. _Friends. Mom can my_ friends _come over._

“Your friends?” She tries not to sound too giddy. “Sure, honey!”

\- -

There's four of them. Two girls, two boys. Jared, and the Murphy siblings, and that girl who Heidi saw in the office, sometimes, when she comes to pick Evan up for therapy. They all walk into the house as if they're expecting to be attacked, as if they're expecting imminent injury.

It's the way Evan looks all the time.

Heidi’s heart aches for these kids.

She lets them settle in at the kitchen table, and starts serving vaguely cold pancakes to them. If there's one thing Heidi knows how to do, it's to calm an atmosphere.

“Mom?” It's the same tone as before.

“Yeah, honey?” She turns, and sees the looks on their faces. They're not here for breakfast. That much is clear. Something in her sinks like a rock.

“Mom…” Evan swallows, looking meek and worried. “We-we need to talk to you.”

“About what, honey?” She wants to give up the ghost, but she won't until she's sure.

“Mrs. Hansen-” Says the office girl.

“Heidi, please.” She interrupts, and the girl frowns.

“Heidi.” The word comes out a little strangled, but she continues on. “We hate to impose, but…”

The group shares a knowing look, and Heidi knows what they're going to say before the words even leave Jared’s mouth.

“Heidi, what happened to Adrian Mellon?” He asks, and the name still makes her smell blood, feel it on her skin.

Heidi shakes her head, bites her lip, and sits down, heavily. “I don't know why you want to know anything about that.”

“Mom, we’re just trying to piece it all together in our heads-” Evan tries to say, but Heidi doesn't really want to hear excuses.

“Does this have something to do with Dayna Palmer?” Evan flinches and Heidi feels a pang of guilt. She shouldn't have brought it up. “How much do you know, already?” She addresses the girl who had been leading the conversation.

“Not much really.” She replies, primly, delicately. Oh, she saw the newspaper article. Heidi knows the guarded look in her eyes all too well. “Only that you were somewhat connected to his murder.”

Heidi snorts. “Very well informed, then. Alright, you wanna know what happened? I'll tell you what happened.”

\- -

Heidi doesn't like to think of it. The police told her that it wasn't her fault. The police said she did all she could. The police said she wasn't in trouble. The police said they were glad she called.

Heidi didn't feel glad. Heidi felt scared.

Nothing bad ever happens in Cloverport. That's the truth. That's the end of it.

But, isn't that true of all small towns?

_In a town where nothing bad ever happens, something bad happens._

That's a _lie._

Bad things happen; they happen all the time.

It's only when a little girl is found on the floor, covered in blood, beside a dead body, after phoning the police for help, that people recognise that Bad Things are only labelled as such when people see them.

Heidi was a brave little girl. Her parents always told her so. Heidi was never scared of the dark, or of fairy tales in which the princess didn't wake up, or the prince never fought through the thicket. Heidi was brave.

The Mellon house and the Orchard were situated on the edge of town.

Back when she was a child, there were quite a few houses there, one of which belonged to a friend of hers. (After what happened with Adrian they all moved out and demolished the houses and the Mellon house was left to stand alone.)

Back then, Heidi had a book club. They read babysitter club books, and on Halloween they read old fashioned Goosebumps. (The other girls were always scared, but Heidi never was. Heidi loved Halloween, and horror movies, and the dark. Heidi was brave.)

So, it wasn't uncommon for her to ride past the Mellon house on her way home from the book club. Her mother died years ago, and her father worked long hours.

Besides, they didn't have a car, and Heidi loved her bicycle.

The night it happened, it didn't feel wrong, or off. She'd just finished her book, drained her hot chocolate mug, and said her goodbyes.

Heidi always thought the Mellon house looked a little odd, but it was a constant. Lights on all around the house, drapes open to display their wealth, lawn meticulously cut.

That night she rode past the house, the lights were flickering through the drawn curtains. Heidi stared long enough to step on the brake by instinct, driving her bike off the road and onto the gravel of the Orchard driveway. Her bike skidded across the gravel, and she fell, right before it smacked into a tree and popped the wheel.

Heidi cried out in pain, the skirt of her dress all ripped up, dirt in a scrape that was already starting to bleed. How would she get home now? Her friends had ridden ahead of her (Heidi liked riding alone, so she could be alone with the moon and the stars, and sing softly to herself like Dorothy, before the tornado, like Alice before Wonderland), and her father couldn't come get her.

She'd have to walk back to Erica's house and ask for a ride home.

Heidi stands up and winces at how her thigh twinges. She brushes stray gravel out of the scrape. The flickering draws her eyes again. Without the wind in her ears, she can hear faint laughter, maniacal laughter, coming from the house. Heidi frowns, and watches the lights go out for good. Then, a strong breeze comes upon her and the treeline, whipping the branches of the trees around her, like crazy, sweeping her off her feet. It feels like a hurricane's winds, so Heidi clings to a tree trunk with all her might, her only hope if this continues.

 _(It's_ not _a hurricane, she knows, there would be_ rain. _There would be_ floods. _They're much too inland for it to be a hurricane. Nothing bad ever happens in Cloverport,_ nothing-)

The laughter is so loud it nearly bursts her ear drums, makes Heidi cry out in pain.

And as sudden as the wind started, it stops.

Heidi's feet thump to the ground, and she crumples onto the dirt.

There are tears on her face, blood running down her leg in little droplets.

Something bad has happened in the Mellon house. It seems impossible. _Nothing bad ever happens-_

Heidi isn't dumb. She's rather smart, if she can trust her father on such things. She knows something's wrong.

It could just be a blackout.

But Heidi knows she's not wrong, using her last few coins on the pay phone outside the reception building at the Orchard, using her last few coins to call the local police department.

They tell her they're on her way. To stay put.

Heidi should do what she's told. She should stay safe. What if something terrible's happened?

But what if someone's hurt?

 _(Heidi isn't_ dumb. _That_ laughter. _There's something_ wrong. _She won't stay put, she_ won't.)

Heidi pushes past the instinct fear that rises in her, and crosses the road, onto the neat and clean garden path. The front door is locked.

She should take this as a sign. Go back to her bike and the tree line, she's safer there, the police are on their way, she doesn't have to do this.

_(Yes, she does.)_

Her bravery wins over.

Heidi jumps the back fence. The backyard is almost as neat and clean as the front, with the exception of the back porch, littered with gumboots and garden tools. Backyards shouldn't look like this. Her backyard has a swing set and a treehouse. A backyard shouldn't look-

The screen door hangs open.

 _(She should take this as a sign, she should_ leave-)

Heidi steps inside, tries the light switch. Nothing happens.

Heidi licks her lips, wipes her sweaty hands on her skirt and walks further into the dark house.

Heidi slips in something wet, and only barely stops herself from falling by grabbing the doorway. Her shoe is coated with something dark and wet. It looks exactly like what's running down her leg.

Her eyes drift to the puddle she slipped in, and then to what's causing the puddle.

Adrian Mellon's scared, dead eyes stare at her.

Heidi screams and drops to her knees beside him.

_(He's only two years older than her. He's only two grades ahead of her. He's about to go into high school. He isn't dead on the floor, lying in a pool of his own blood-)_

Heidi rolls him onto his back, and tries to find where the blood is coming from. But it's everywhere, and there's blood on her hands and everything from the knee down, and her dress, and she's sure that's what's turning her yellow hair rusty coloured, but it doesn't matter, because Heidi can't let him die.

Heidi can't save him, either.

In her heart, she knows, she's too late, and that's what starts the tears.

When the police finally break down the door, and find her and Adrian, the blood has started to dry on her, and her tears have stopped.

They tell her it's alright. They tell her that they're sending a car for her father. They tell her that the Mellon's are on their way.

They ask her questions.

_Did she see anything strange? When did she enter the house? When did she leave Erica's house? How did she sustain her wounds?_

Heidi doesn't know how to answer.

Her father comes and takes her home, and tucks her into bed once she's scrubbed the blood off her skin, numbly, out of her hair, watched it disappear, pink in the water, down the drain, put gauze on her thigh.

She doesn't forget the look of fear etched, permanently onto Adrian's face, or the way the wind her lifted her off her feet.

She doesn't forget anything about that night.

_(Heidi never forgets the laughter.)_

\- -

The office girl - Alana, she thinks - has a hand over her mouth. The other girl is clutching Alana’s hand. The boy with the long hair looks ill. Heidi heaves a sigh.

“That's not all.” Jared comments, in a knowing voice. He's a little green, himself, but he looks to be pushing through it.

Evan gives her a look that she can't read.

“You're very perceptive.” Heidi replies and nods. “There's more. Evan, honey, have you told them what happened?”

“The clown?” The girl in overalls asks, and then shrinks into her seat.

The long-haired boy shakes his head. “Nothing in-detail.”

Heidi puts a hand on her sons arm, and pushes the sleeve up, revealing the scar that still makes her stomach churn. “You're about to get some detail.”

\- -

Heidi knows better, as she gets older.

She's only twenty when she finds herself settling down, in her childhood house, with the boy she went to Senior prom with.

She has a son, a year later, hair like sand, eyes like sea foam.

_(Heidi's not sure of that analogy. She's never seen sea foam - the river off Main Street is as close as she can get.)_

Evan is her pride and joy, so small, so happy.

He's everything in her eyes, and she knows his father thinks so too.

But, she knows, he doesn't always have time for Evan. Sometimes he's busy. Sometimes he's distracted.

Heidi remembers, vividly, around the time that Evan got confident with crawling, that he got distracted, and she only barely stopped Evan from tumbling down the stairs. She gave his father a stern talking to over that, but he apologised, and hugged her, and kissed the top of her head, and promised to be more careful.

Heidi should have known better, but she'd always been a trusting person. She should have seen the warning signs as what they were, but, soon enough, she got just as distracted, just as busy as her husband.

Evan got older, more independent, could walk and talk confidently - he could talk quickly, without stopping or stumbling over his words like her husband did, and Evan liked to talk - and feed himself without getting food everywhere. She trusted in him to be sensible, in her husband to be careful.

He is careful, they both are, but Evan's clumsy, and her husband is absent minded, and no matter how she tries, they never mesh as she wishes they would.

Heidi should have seen it coming.

It's been raining for two days straight, heavy and nonstop. Evan's always loved the rain.

_(She should have seen it coming, she should have paid attention, she shouldn't have let him out of her sight-)_

But she sees Evan sitting on his father's lap as he folds a paper boat, and Heidi knows he's been begging to go out in the rain, and apparently, his father's taken it upon himself to take him out.

She smiles, and goes back to sorting through the mail.

She hears squeals and happy little plodding, and her husbands soft words, talking about how Evan buttoned up the raincoat wrong, and tutting.

And then the door opens and closes, and silence fills the house.

Heidi breathes a sigh of relief, and turns to the kettle, ready to just fall asleep on the sofa or her bed, ready to do anything, because she loves Evan, and her husband, but it's often too much.

The kettle shrieks and Heidi pours the boiling water into a mug, one her mother-in-law had given as a set for her wedding.

Arms wrap around her waist and Heidi relaxes into the familiar hold, letting her eyes drop closed, leaning into the touch-

She jerks out of her husband's arms, realisation screaming and shouting at the front of her head.

"Where's Evan?" She demands of her husband. He looks startled.

He stutters out something about, "Outside, he's playing, Heidi, what's wrong?"

And Heidi stares at him, fear in her chest, constricting her, her ears ringing. "On his _own?"_ She demands, something making the hair on her arms stand on end.

"Yes, he's fine, he's just outside-"

She recognises the laughter as it gets louder, and the fear paralyses her mind.

Heidi is running before she can even match it.

She isn't wearing shoes. Hell, she's still in her pyjamas, but if she's right, and she prays she isn't, there's no time-

The asphalt scrapes her her bare feet as she runs out onto the road. She looks back and forth, either end of the road, and it's by pure accident, that his little yellow raincoat catches her eyes, kneeling beside a storm drain.

She screams his name and runs as fast as she can make herself run, terror making her bones heavy.

Heidi watches him reach into the drain and it only propels her forward faster, because she won't let what happened to Adrian happen to him, the laughter louder than the rain.

Heidi tears him away from the claw reaching out of the drain, but it doesn't stop the claws from digging into Evan's arm, ripping his raincoat, ripping his skin, blood mixing with the rain, it doesn't stop the unmistakeable sound of a bone snapping.

Heidi hold him close to her and she scrambles away from the drain, not sure exactly what she tore him away from, but the laughter is receding and Evan is hurt, but he's alive, and hiccuping as he cries, and bleeding all over her top, but he's _alive,_ and that's all that matters.

\- -

“I know it's not over,” Heidi’s throats hurts from all the talking. “I know it's only been a small reprieve. I'm afraid whatever killed Adrian, whatever killed that poor girl in the Orchard, I'm afraid that’s what was in the drain, that day. I hope that that's what you wanted to hear.”

The group nods slowly, as if still processing the story. Evan looks sick. Heidi hates that her story made him feel that way. Hates it, but knows if he's going to understand how fucked up this town is, he's got to hear the gory details.

\- -

It's not his father's fault. It isn't. She knows it isn't.

_(Evan used to talk all the time, but after this, he stutters, he stays quiet, he mumbles more than he shouts, and Heidi’s heart breaks, because she couldn't save his precious voice, couldn't save his innocence-)_

But Heidi's so angry, she needs someone to blame so she doesn't have to think about how close she was to losing her baby.

 _(Evan says it was a clown, and she'll believe him to the ends of the earth, but it wasn't a_ clown _that tried to take her baby, no, something as_ evil _as that isn't anywhere near_ human-)

She won't forgive him, won't let him get a word in.

She makes him leave, and he does it, because he's never been good at fighting, and he's always been useless at fighting her, and he moves away, and it's all her fault, everything, it's all her fault-

Nothing bad ever happens in Cloverport.

Not if no one ever hears about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading this chapter. Drop a comment, tell us about what's you liked, if there's a typo we missed, or if there's a trigger warning I forgot to put down. Please leave a kudos if you haven't already.
> 
> You can find me and my coauthors on Tumblr @nose-coffee (me) and @cake-snake (HamiltonTrash)
> 
> Again, thanks, see you next chapter!


	14. thirteen: you've seen me bare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jared scoffs. “Yeah, but my dad doesn't know there's some fucking demon out here preying on teenagers. He's not going to have the information to say ‘Cause of Death: Demon’-”
> 
> “No, that's not what I'm saying, and you know it, Jared.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey-hey guys! It's been a while since you saw a chapter from me, but I have something new for you today! Oh, wait, it's HamiltonTrash, by the way! 
> 
> Chapter title from 'Bare' by Wildes.
> 
> So, here are some content warnings to look out for: discussion of a person who is deceased, discussion of suicidal ideation, and past suicide attempts, anxiety/panic attack, description (vague) of a dead body.
> 
> That said, I really hope you guys enjoy this chapter!

_thirteen._

“Look, I'm not saying it's not possible that Dayna just went out there, got mauled by a wild animal, and put an end to her own misery there and then, but I'm saying it's looking more and more like she was attacked by It, to me.” Jared says, and it's the third time Jared has mentioned Dayna Palmer in the last hour.

They're walking through a park, Jared walking with the group, by climbing through the old play equipment that lay abandoned this late in the afternoon. Zoe has her arm slung over Alana's shoulders casually, but both of them kept eyeing each other like it isn't natural to either of them. Connor walks a few feet away from Evan, giving him strange looks that made Evan feel small inside, like he should shy away, but not like normal, not from fear. It made him want to curl in on himself to hide the part of him that lit up every time Connor gave him a sideways look.

“Well, I suppose it does look like that,” Alana agrees - though tentatively - ducking her head a little, that way she does when she's hesitant to agree with something, or when she's sure someone is going to interject, tell her how she's wrong.

“Oh, come on! That's exactly what it looks like! Everybody was thinking it!” Jared whines, swinging down to the ground to join them, leaving the jungle gym cold and abandoned.

“Only because it's all you've been talking about for the last hour.” Evan mumbles, and Connor looks across at him, concerned this time. Any time conversation turns to Dayna, Evan has a habit of shutting down, of withdrawing from conversation. He knows he looks upset and uncomfortable, but on the inside he's close to fuming. Jared wasn't able to stop talking about the dead girl, unable to stop adding gross indecency to a death that was already talk of the town, the biggest thing since the death of Adrian Mellon.

“What was that Evan? You agree, right buddy? _C’mon_.”

“I don't think it's up to you to decide what killed her. I think that's your dad's job.” Evan is trying to keep his voice even and steady, but he can already feel tears pricking at his eyes, can feel the panic clawing at his throat, can hear the laughter echoing at the edges of his mind.

“And all I'm saying, is that it's becoming increasingly likely that any kid our age who’s died in the last year might have been killed by this thing-”

“Jared-” Evans tone is warning, dangerous, and Jared isn’t heeding it.

“- and with the weirdness of this death, I mean, who chooses to kill themselves after a mauling like that? Your survival instincts would be going crazy! She'd be more likely to die clutching at a phone, or crawling toward the exit, not clutching a gun with a bullet in her brain! There's more to this death than everybody gives it credit for, there's more, and I think that ‘more’ is the same thing that's making us all go insane! And really, to be denying it, Evan-”

“Look! Jared, it's not our business to make assumptions about her death! We have no idea what happened! It's not our business to decide! Not yours certainly, not Alana's, not Zoe's, not Connor's, hell! Not even mine - _and I'm the one who found her!_ ”

And everyone turns and looks at him with hostile- _concerned?_ \- looks on their faces. And that's when he realises what he's said. What he's revealed. And the anxiety is in his lungs, filling them up, and he can't breathe, but his legs are working fine, he finds, as he runs as far from the group as he can.

He can hear Zoe calling him distantly, Alana speaking clearly, calmly, urgently, Jared stammering, saying something about how he didn't know, how he couldn't have known, and footfalls behind him, but he can't stop running, even knowing it is probably Connor behind him, no, he can't stop running, because if he stops running, he will have to live in a reality where he really did find her. And he really was there. And he really was going to-

And he collapses, and there will be grass stains on his khakis, but there are worse things, and his arms are wrapped around himself, and his chest is so tight, and he can't breathe and-

“Evan.” There are hands on his face, and Connor's face in front of his, and Evan can't help but flinch away from the touch, a defence he has learned, shying away from sensory stimulation while he's overwhelmed. He can't process it. It makes his racing thoughts go ten times faster, move around where usually they would be travelling in a straight line, even in his panic. He pulls back, sharply, stiffly, almost violently, and looks up to see what damage he's done. Usually people are hurt by it, even his mother gets a sad look in her eye when he pulls away from her comforting touch, but Connor still looks concerned, not at all upset, just sympathetic. “Evan, it's okay, you're okay, take deep breaths, it's okay, are you-”

“ _It's not okay,_ ” Evan wheezes out, struggling to breathe, to talk around the anxiety in his throat, the anxiety that was choking him. “It's not okay, a girl _died_ , and- and- and- I found her. I saw her. I didn't see her until-” and he chokes.

He can't tell Connor that, he can't tell Connor why he was there, at the orchard, just two hours after Dayna died. He can't, he can't tell him what he was going to do, what he had been about to do when he spotted a flash of red in the grass. How high up the tree he had been before he had spotted her.

Connor's eyes are wild with worry, his hands sort of dancing around Evan's shoulders as he tries to determine whether touching him is the best action to take, wondering how best to comfort him. “You need to takes some deep breaths- shit Evan, I don't know how to help you, tell me how to help you, please.”

Evan looks down at his hands, and then back at Connor. “Can I- could- it's stupid-”

“Nothing's stupid, seriously.” Connor's face is dead serious, and it gives Evan the courage.

“Can- can I play with your hair-” Evan blushes over his oncoming panic attack, or maybe it was already here, and he was in the eye of the storm, blissfully unaware of the hurricane surrounding him, either way, he can feel his embarrassment rise over the fear filling his lungs, and swallows he swallows it, sticking to the path he's taken. “It's just, I um, usually I have a stim toy - like a fidget cube, or a pen to click, or, sorry, I'm getting off track - or I knit or crochet, or sometimes my mom will give up her hair if she’s home, I'm sorry, you don't have to-”

And Connor turns around, and shakes his hair out with his fingers. “Go for it.”

Evan swallows his embarrassment and his hands are up in Connor's hair, and he can feel the calm slam into him as hair settles between his fingertips. He lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding, and settled into a familiar pattern of French braiding, something his mom had taught him to do while he was in physical therapy, getting use of his hand back after the first attack.

“Can you- you were scared of telling us.” Connor states, as straightforwardly as he can. There is a questioning tone to his voice that obviously asks ‘ _why were you scared of telling us?_ ’

“I'm still scared.” Evan replies, pushing down every instinct he has that tells him to clam up, to stop, to become unresponsive. Ignores the part of his brain that is constantly on red alert.

“Tell me. Let me help you carry the fear? If you're comfortable with it, that is.” Connor amends, and Evan can't stop his hand petting the top of his head soothingly, and can't rip his eyes away from the way that Connor closes his eyes blissfully as he does that.

“It's fine.” He whispers, and takes a deep breath to prepare himself. “I-” and he chokes, he sobs. He feels Connor tense under his hands, and he lays a hand on his shoulder to get him to stay as he is, to not turn around, to make sure Connor doesn't see what a mess he truly is. He is going to tell him, he doesn't need to see it too.

“I came to the orchard early that morning. I was- heh, I was sick of it all, and I wanted it to end, and I was- I was gonna end it. I was going out there to just-” he shakes his head, and bites his lip, and he can feel how tense Connor is. “Just to die. I didn't want to live like this anymore. So I went out there and just ran as deep in as I could, I wasn’t thinking. Or I was. I thought maybe, if I went in deep enough, no one would ever find me, and my mom would never have to bury me, and she'd never really have to deal with it. And I found the tallest tree I could, and I just-” another sob “-just climbed as high as I could, I was going to jump.”

He can't stop the humorless chuckle that passes his lips. “It wasn't even the first time. A year ago, it drew me out there, told me it would all look so much better from all the way up there, and I reached this branch that wasn't going to hold my weight, and I slipped, and I had this thought: _I could just let go, and it would be over, and it would be better_. And I let go, and, stupid me, I couldn't even do that right. I broke my arm. It was pathetic. I lay there for, like, twenty minutes, like someone was going to some and rescue me. Stupid. No one even signed the cast.”

“You-” Connor starts.

“ _Shhh_.”

He takes another deep breath, trying to move past that confession. Trying to move past because he felt Connor stir under his grip, saw his spine straighten, saw his mouth curve downwards, and he doesn't need to see how Connor pities him now. He needs to move on so Connor can as well, and he never has to see that pity again. He continues. “But then, I caught this flash of red in the grass not too far off, just as I was about to jump. And I don't know what made me do it, the curiosity, or maybe I didn't really want to do it. But I climbed down, and I went to see what it was. And I- I screamed, Connor, I screamed so loud, and no one heard, and no one came.”

He doesn't say that he's afraid no one ever will.

Evan pulled his hands from Connor's hair, where he felt like he had been pulling, balling his hands in it, and brought them back up to the top of his head, pulling the braid out with his fingers, gently, just brushing through Connor's hair, feeling it, breathing, settling himself to keep going.

“I didn't bring my phone, and I had to just leave her there, cold, and bloody, and-” he takes a deep breath, blinks back tears and continues. “-and she looked _terrified_. I went to the payphone outside the orchard and I rang the police. When they finally arrived, I had to show them back to where she was. I had to go back there. And stay there while they took my statement, and they took me to the station to question me, and all I could think about was how scared she looked.”

“And now?” Connor asks, voice grave and serious, and Evan starts work on a new braid.

“And now I'm utterly terrified. Because she was so f-f- fuc- freaking scared, and if It is what killed her, then that's what's coming for me, and for us, and I can't- I can't live in a world where the thing that killed her, that made her look and feel like that, that hurt her that much, is the thing that wants to kill me. Wants to kill you. Everyone. I can't- I don't want to. I can't think about it.”

And all of a sudden, Connor is twisted round, holding his wrists - Evan’s hands are shaking - and the look on his face was soft and sympathetic. “It's okay.” He stops, reconsiders, as Evan opens his mouth to tell him that, no, it's not okay, nothing is ever going to be okay again. “Or it's not. It's super fucked up. But we're gonna make it, okay? We're gonna end the cycle. We're gonna kill it, before it has a chance to do anything to us. You're safe.”

“I'm not.” Evan tells him, tears in his eyes.

Connor bends his head in admission. “You're right, we’re not. We are not safe. But we're going to be.”

And Evan hopes he's right as he collapses into Connor's warm body, head on his shoulder, Connor's arms wrapping around him, shielding him from the rest of the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alrighty, hope that was enough fluff at the end there to help soothe the angst. And now you know! Dayna was found by Evan. Congrats to Daisy, who figured it out last chapter! 
> 
> Now, the next chapter is really special, and I'm not sure who's posting it, because it was written by all of us. We were all involved in the writing of this one. Which means what you think it means- you're graduating from single perspective writing to multiple perspectives! 
> 
> Please leave a kudos and/or a comment if you enjoyed, and seriously, speculate as you will in the comments. We love to read your ideas. (Not because we're stealing them, we promise, all of it, besides the last chapter and two sections of the second last, is written.) 
> 
> Reach out to us in tumblr! I (HamiltonTrash) am available at @cake-snake and nosecoffee is available at @nose-coffee.
> 
> Looking forward to give you guys the next update!


	15. fourteen: just be real is all i'm asking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, hello! Many thanks to HamiltonTrash and nosecoffee for allowing me to post this chapter -- I was just so excited and didn't want to wait!! 
> 
> This is a collaborative chapter, which means each one of us handled a different part of it. I wrote the parts from Zoe's POV, while nosecoffee wrote the parts from Jared's POV, and HamiltonTrash wrote the parts from Connor's POV. 
> 
> The title of this chapter is taken from the song "Santa Fe" from the musical Newsies (which, btw, Mike Faist understudied for Jack Kelly in, so if you haven't heard his version of "Santa Fe" yet, definitely go check it out!).
> 
> Fair warning, this chapter is pretty intense, so please make sure that you're in a decent state of mind when you read this chapter and that you read the trigger warnings thoroughly. I really don't want anyone to be upset by this or get hurt, so please be careful with yourselves, and remember you can always take a breather or read this on another day. This work will be waiting for you when you come back :)
> 
> Trigger warnings: Implied/reference self harm, mentions of scars, mentions of suicide attempt, body horror, blood, gore, mention of panic attack, slight suicidal ideation
> 
> If I've forgotten any trigger warnings, please let me know! And now, without further ado, let's get to the angst.

_ fourteen. _

After the park, it was hard to coax Evan back to the group. To convince him that no one was angry, and that nobody was going to laugh at him.

 

“I’ll hurt them if they do,” Connor says. “But nobody is going to. Have you noticed how damaged this group is? I mean, that’s the whole point of it. We are all traumatized. No one is going to make fun of you for this, no one is going to be mad about this. Anyone who would be is fucked up.”

 

Evan nods, and lets Connor help him off the ground. Connor notes the grass stains on the kneesof his khakis, the dirt smeared over the both of them, the tear tracks on Evan’s face, where no tears were because he had wiped them away. Evan seems so small like this, not that he doesn’t usually have a demeanor that made himself smaller anyways.

 

“Hey, there you guys are.” Jared’s voice is loud, as usual, but there is a softness in it, obviously assumed after Evan’s confession. “We’re gonna go back to my house and order takeout and watch rom-coms. I wanted to watch horror movies, but these two reminded me that we live in one, so we made a change.”

 

Connor looks over to Evan, still looking down, shoulders still hunched over his chest. “Yeah, we’ll come along, right, Evan?”

 

Evan looks up and makes eye contact, panicked at first, and then his eyes soften, and he nods. “Yeah, that sounds like fun.”

 

Jared leads the way to his beat-up car, Alana climbing into the passenger seat, leaving Connor and Zoe to bookend Evan in the back seat. Connor watches with something burning inside him, something he doesn’t quite understand, as Zoe smiles at Evan sympathetically.

 

The ride back to Jared’s house is long by small town standards, and dangerous with Jared behind the wheel. The boy seems to have a death wish, driving fifteen miles above the posted limit, taking corners too fast, making little to no use of the clutch, and relying much too heavily on his brakes for Connor’s liking. He thinks he will feel better when the car is parked.

 

Alana and Jared are idly chatting, like Alana isn’t gripping the seat with whitened knuckles and clenched teeth, and Evan seems to have curled in on himself, his knees brought up into his chest, arms wrapped around them, chin tucked into his chest, forehead resting on his knees. Connor tries not to think about how much he wants to take one of Evan’s hands, or stroke his hair, like he’s deserving of comforting Evan, like Evan would _want_ him to comfort him.

 

He sighs and closes his eyes, resting his head back into the headrest, trying to ignore the lurching of the car and that impulse to reach a few mere inches over and take Evan’s hand.

 

Finally, the car lurches to a stop, and Connor fumbles for the door handle and his seatbelt, freeing himself from the deathtrap of a vehicle.

 

“Kleinman, I would rather eat somebody else’s toenail clippings than get into a car you’re driving ever again,” he forces out, just glad to be on solid ground again.

 

“Agreed,” Zoe and Alana say at the same time, and flash each other this brief, timid smile.

 

Evan climbs out of the car slowly, silently, shakily, continues to be withdrawn. And Connor wishes he could be brave enough to show Evan the scars, show Evan the damage he’s done himself, the evidence of his attempts, wishes he was brave enough to show Evan that he’s not alone.

 

But he can’t find the strength to pull up his sleeves, can’t find the motivation to explain to Evan how he felt the same way, so lost, and alone, and frightened, and so, so empty of everything but fear all of the time.

 

“Fuck off, Murphy, like you could drive better.”

 

Connor stiffens at that comment, that little reminder of all the normalcy that It has stolen from him, and he wants to lash out, wants to make Jared hurt the way that he does. And he stops. Because Jared also hurts. Because of the same thing, this entity that wants them to hurt, so deeply, wants to slice away at their very souls, wants — what was that saying? The enemy of my enemy is my friend? Jared doesn’t mean to hurt, doesn’t mean to wound. Simply doesn’t think.

 

So Connor recomposes himself, and smirks.

 

“I take offense to that. I can’t drive, due to my condition.” He means it as a joke, but still he sees Jared’s face fall.

 

“Oh, sorry man, that was really insensitive, and—”

 

“Jared, chill. It was a joke, I didn’t take offense.”

 

Jared’s mouth moves like he means to keep speaking, but nothing comes out, and he just nods. And then. “I’m still sorry, I didn’t think, and really, that’s the one thing you should do before you speak, right?”

 

“I—” Connor breathes, pulls air into his lungs, and breathes out the hurt he was still feeling. Breathes it out, gets rid of it, because he can feel the sincerity in Jared’s voice. “Thank you.”

 

Jared nods solemnly and turns to go and unlock the door to his house, which is neither old nor modern looking, but certainly average in size and how imposing the building is. Every time Connor walks into his house, he feels like he’s entering the monsters’ lair, it’s so large, and imposing, so impressive. Kleinman’s house seems welcoming, homey, if a little bland.

 

Connor can tell Jared’s mother buys decor from Pottery Barn. It all seems personal, but not quite personal enough. Just slightly too polished, too distant to be anything anyone’s attached to.

 

“Welcome to my humble abode.” Jared’s joking tone is back. "My parents are out of town, as usual, but please, no parties, no drugs, let’s have good clean fun. If you break anything, you buy it.”

 

Alana giggles uncomfortably at the comment, and seems to reach out naturally for Zoe, who gravitates into her touch, wraps an arm around Alana’s shoulders. Alana’s shoulders drop comfortably, and her too-straight spine relaxes, and Alana drops that illusion of perfection the moment his sister touches her. It’s almost cute.

 

“Are we staying overnight?” Zoe asks, unaware how entranced everyone else is with their easy, comfortable movements.

 

“That was the thought,” Jared says after a moment, and hangs up his keys. “Shoes off at the door. Evan, it’s nearly sunset, we need to go light some candles and say some prayers. Can you guys be quiet for a little while?” Jared asks, looking a little wary, like he’s waiting for someone to question him, waiting for someone to refuse.

 

“Yes, of course. We’ll occupy ourselves. Let us know when you’re done, okay?” Alana answers for the whole group.

 

As Connor and the two girls retreat upstairs, he can hear Jared say something along the lines of: “Don’t worry, I’ll recite kiddush. I know how much you worry about stuttering during it. My mom left meals in the fridge and did all the other preparations before she left. It’s too bad she didn’t stick around for the candle lighting, it’s weird to be the woman of the house for a day.”

 

And his voice is so gentle. So calm. The whole tradition seems so calm. Connor hopes it helps Evan cement himself back onto the ground.

 

Due to Evan’s anxiety, and Jared’s insistence that using the telephone was against the rules of the Shabbat, Connor was made to order food. They had immediately rejected the idea of pizza, as it’s too hard to get kosher. Eventually, Zoe and Alana settle on Chinese, and Jared and Evan make Connor heat up one of the meals left by Jared’s mother, a stew of some sort.

 

Dinner is a chill affair, everyone eating, laughing, just talking, like they’re normal teenagers, like they’ve all been friends for ages. But there is a part of Connor’s brain, maybe the bit that It has invaded, that reminds him that they haven’t been friends for that long, that this is a group that they have created out of desperation and fear. That not everything is alright.

 

The rest seems to speed by in front of Connor’s eyes, and he feels himself come to with Evan in front of him, more open, more sociable, but worried-looking.

 

“Are you okay?” Evan asks.

 

“I should ask you the same thing. Where did everybody go?”

 

“Alana and Zoe went to wash dishes, and then I think Alana said something about a bath. Jared is looking for rom-coms.”

 

Connor nods absently. There was a faint pressure in his head, and he tries to roll his head to get a crick out of his neck, try and ward off the oncoming headache.

 

“Seriously, Connor, are you okay?”

 

“I don’t know. I think something’s wrong, but I can’t put a finger on it,” he says, not entirely aware of himself.

 

And now Evan’s hands are on his wrists, resting over the hoodies that hid his scars, hid that secret ugliness of his suffering. Connor pulls back without thinking, and his sight flickers away. He’s in the dark. He’s alone.

 

He draws his knees to his chest, and a hand finds a way to his hair, and he calls out in instinct. “Zoe?”

 

And then he remembers who is there, touching him only moments before. Trying to comfort him. “Evan? Where did you go?” Connor can’t even hear him here, where he is, and he’s beginning to believe that he had made Evan up to comfort himself. He reaches out, his hand meeting nothing. Evan had just been in front of him, where was he? “Why aren’t you here? You promised you’d stay. Where are you?”

 

There is a desperate tone to his voice that he hates. He hates how weak he gets, like this, how when one sense is removed, he is reduced to something like a child lost in the mall without his mother — scared, lost, stumbling, so, so alone.

 

And then a hand finds his and squeezes, and it’s warm, and soft, despite the calluses. “I’m right here, Connor, I’m right here, right in front of you.”

 

“I can’t see you Evan, I can’t see, it’s so dark. Please don't leave me.”

 

Evan’s voice is steady for once, and warm, so warm, his voice is like lying in the sunshine on a mild spring day. “I’m not going to leave you, Connor, I’m right here. I won’t leave unless you want me to.”

 

“I don’t want you to, please don’t leave.”

 

A hand on his shoulder, squeezing comfortingly, and Connor pulls softly at a handful of hair, the pressure reminding him that he’s not just floating in the void of space. “I’m not leaving. I won’t ever leave, Connor, I’m right here.”

 

“Touch me, please, I need — I need to know that I’m here. Please, just—”

 

Evan’s hand is on his face, and an arm is wrapping around him, pulling him, and Connor puts his feet out to greet the floor, allowing himself to be gently pulled to the floor in front of Evan, where he is pulled into warm, strong arms. He removes a hand from his hair, and uses it to grip Evan’s arm. He is safe here. He is—

 

_Evan is only doing this because he pities you. Who wouldn’t, you look so pathetic, sobbing over something so simple as your sight,_ it whispers, _he doesn’t feel the same way, will_ never _. You’re disgusting to think he could like you in that way. Who could love you? Weak, pathetic, junkie, idiot,_ disappointment _._

 

“Please, Evan please—”

 

“I’m right here.”

 

His hands grip at Evan’s shirt, and he feels Evan shuffle closer.

 

“I’m right here, with you, Connor. You’re right here. We’re in Jared’s house, on the floor of the dining room. You’re here with me, right here.”

 

“I don’t know what’s real and what’s not anymore, Evan. You’re real, aren’t you, you’re not a part of this— this— this illusion, right? You’re actually here with me. Please, Evan, prove you’re here, I need to know you’re here, and you’re you, and not just a cruel part of this torture. Please, please—”

 

And Connor doesn’t know what to do, how to get that nasty voice in his head to stop so he can just talk to Evan. He reaches a hand up to find Evan’s jaw, and he’s right there. So close, so near and—

 

And Evan’s lips are on his, soft and warm and so comforting, and Evan is there, right there. There’s something so bittersweet about this kiss, even as it feels like a beginning, and not an end. And he kisses back, because if this is the end, if he’s misinterpreted this, he will regret not kissing Evan back.

 

Evan squeezes him, holds him so close, and his sight flickers back, and Evan really is so close. His blue eyes are so near to home, he can see the small facets of green in them, and his eyebrows are pulled close over his nose, worried.

 

“How…” Connor asks.

 

“You can—”

 

“You’re here. You’re really— you really—” Connor’s fingers find his lips, and Evan is pulling away, and Connor can’t let him leave, grasping at Evan’s hand. “Tell me you’ll do that again.”

 

Evan’s eyes grow wide with surprise before his fingers find Connor’s cheek, and he draws him in for another kiss, this one just as sweet, full of promises and hope. 

 

——

Alana’s sobbing, gasping for air, tears streaking down her cheeks, and for an awful, helpless second, all Zoe can do is stand and watch.

 

She’s never seen Alana be anything but composed, and in spite of all the horror she’d divulged at the meeting and in their time together since, Zoe still hadn’t anticipated just how heartbreaking this moment could be. She hadn’t anticipated the way it would make her feel like she was breaking down, too, shattering to pieces right alongside the wailing girl in the bath tub. She hadn’t anticipated the way it would be worse than anything It has sent her before, worse than anything she can possibly imagine It ever sending her. 

 

She hadn’t anticipated the way it would tear at every part of her soul.

 

Zoe doesn’t remember anyone telling her that someone else’s pain could hurt you even more than it hurts them. 

 

Connor’s pain was always different. He was never quite as raw about it, save for the occasional frustrated breakdown — but when those came, he always made sure to shove Zoe away, distance himself to save her from seeing it. Connor’s thirteen years of struggling, watching the light go out of his eyes and knowing all too well the cause of each and every crack in his heart — that’s been hard, there’s no doubt about that. But it’s more like a dull ache at this point, a slow-burning kind of hurt, one that Zoe has had almost her entire life to deal with. Witnessing Alana’s hallucination, it’s not even comparable to her situation with Connor, because this is a sudden and unexpected confrontation with reality, a confrontation that Zoe’s not really sure if she can handle, and it’s almost too much pain to bear all at once. 

 

She hadn’t meant for this to happen, and now she’s not sure if Alana is the type to get embarrassed by vulnerability, if she’d rather be left alone until the tears subside or if she’d want to be comforted through it. Zoe doesn’t know what to do. She’s never mulled this over before, hadn’t expected that this would be a choice for her to make. Alana had been in here taking a bath, and Zoe had walked by and heard crying, and then shrieking. Thank God the other girl had left the door unlocked.

 

Alana is soaked. She must have still been drawing up her bath, because the tub is only half-full and she’s not naked, clothed in a dark purple cardigan, white button-down, and jeans, all of which are surely ruined at this point. Her shoes, silver slip-on loafers, lie abandoned by the foot of the tub, and Alana’s curled up in the water, knees hugged to her chest. She’s the definition of trembling, shivering to the point that her teeth are actually fucking _chattering_ as she pleads with something Zoe can’t see or hear. “P-please,” she whimpers, “m-make it stop. Make it _stop_.” 

 

Then their eyes meet, Alana’s gaze so damn desperate, and Zoe realizes with a jolt that Alana isn’t talking to It. 

 

She doesn’t want Its help. She wants _Zoe’s_. Somewhere deep down, Alana believes Zoe has the power to make it stop, and so she’s begging her to do just that.

 

Zoe doesn’t have the time to analyze which particular part of that revelation spurs her into action, but _something_ about it definitely gets her moving, crossing over to the bath tub and kneeling by Alana’s side. She tries not to cringe as cold water seeps into her jeans — Alana’s gotten it everywhere — and she reaches over to turn off the spout. An overflowing bath tub is certainly not at the top of her list of things they need right now.

 

“Make it stop, Zoe,” Alana repeats, more insistent this time, and icy tendrils of pain unfurl in Zoe’s chest. 

 

“Make what stop, Lana?” she asks softly, the nickname slipping out unintentionally as she helps Alana to sit up. 

 

Alana’s brow furrows. “The blood,” she says slowly. “Don’t you see the blood? It’s _everywhere_ , I — I don’t know what happened.” 

 

Zoe’s stomach clenches. “It’s just water,” she tells her, trying her best to be reassuring, “nothing to worry about. Let’s get you dry and out of these wet clothes, and I’ll clean up in here—”

 

“ _No_ , Zoe,” Alana cuts her off, voice rising with every word, “you can’t tell me you don’t see it. It’s _everywhere_ , the bath tub is full of it, I—I was drowning in it, _how do you not see it_?!” She’s verging on hysterical again, eyes wild as her breath comes in quick, shallow pants. Zoe’s talked enough to Evan to know that these are the classic symptoms of an oncoming panic attack, but — _shit_ , what is she supposed to do, and where does Jared Kleinman keep his _fucking_ towels — 

 

Zoe’s not sure if it’s instinct or impulsivity or just plain stupidity that drives her to pull Alana into an embrace, but that’s exactly what she does, holding the older girl close and ignoring the feeling of dampness spreading across her T-shirt. Alana’s still shaking, mumbling pleas that Zoe can’t understand but would surely break her heart, and she’d never noticed before that Alana was so much shorter than her, but the difference is now striking. She’s scarily small in Zoe’s arms, and it makes her blood boil, to think that something out there could torture someone as strong as Alana and bring them to this point, wear away at them until they’re nothing more than desperation and fear. 

 

The urge to help eats at her. Zoe strokes a hand through the other girl’s hair, and Alana seems to relax a little under her touch. “I’m sorry,” she murmurs, suddenly fighting back tears of her own. “I wish I could help, I wish I could make it stop, but — I don’t know _how_ , Alana, I’m so sorry. God, I want nothing more than to help you, you have no idea—”

 

She stops short, trailing off as she spots a drop of scarlet on Alana’s cheek. _Blood._ Where did that come from? Zoe goes to wipe it away with her thumb, but then she happens to look down, and — _holy shit_. There’s blood _everywhere_. The knees of her jeans are stained burgundy, Alana’s clothes all bathed in varying shades of red, and the pure white of the bathtub stands out in vivid contrast to the pool of vermilion liquid that fills it.

 

Alana buries her face in Zoe’s shoulder, and all she can do is lean into the comforting contact as she gazes at the grotesque scene around her.

 

Somehow, against all odds, she’s been transported into Alana’s hallucination. 

 

She can see the blood, too.

 

And now, maybe, she can make it stop.

 

“Alana, listen to me,” she urges, tucking one of the girl’s braids behind her ear so Alana can see her better. “I believe you, okay? I believe you. I can see it, too. And I know it’s scary, and I know it’s a lot, but — I’m going to make it stop. _We’ll_ make it stop. It’s going to go away, I promise.”

 

Their eyes lock, and Alana’s are still wide and shiny with tears, but Zoe thinks she can glimpse the beginnings of hope there. And a fragment of hope is all she needs for now. 

 

Red fades to white, and Zoe’s rendered temporarily speechless as she watches the blood disappear, the crimson smears in the bathtub morphing into clear droplets of water, everything that had frightened Alana so badly simply washed away in a matter of moments. 

 

The hallucination’s gone. And that gives Zoe the strength to lift Alana out of the bathtub, hook an arm around her, and help the other girl to the guest bedroom where Zoe’s staying. 

 

And in spite of the awful trauma of seeing Alana break down in this way, Zoe can’t help but feel a little exhilarated. Because she doesn’t know what the hell just happened, but — 

 

Maybe, she thinks, they might just have a chance at beating It. 

 

——

Jared can’t open the door. That’s the first sign that something bad is happening.

 

He can’t open his own bathroom door.

 

That’s a problem.

 

Jared tugs on the door handle a little harder, and still, it won’t budge.

 

The bathroom door has never been a problem before. In fact, most of the doors in this house don’t even creak, that's how well taken care of they are.

 

“Uh,” he calls through the door, and knocks, wondering if this some practical joke that Evan and-slash-or Connor is playing on him. Probably not. They know how he feels about confined spaces and solitude for large amounts of time. “This isn’t funny, guys.”

 

And the sound he’s learned to dread, the hum of an electrical surge, meets his ears, and Jared watches his reflection in horror as the lights go out in the bathroom.

 

There’s a split second where he thinks he sees light in the crack under the door, but, then, everything is dark.

 

“I’m not laughing,” he says, as a last-ditch effort, but even he knows it’s not Evan and Connor. He’s not an idiot.

 

Jared fumbles for the vanity. There’s tea lights in the counter, matches next to it. Jared doesn’t trust flashlights anymore, doesn’t trust the flickering fluorescent light.

 

There, the matchbox, nearly full for how much he uses it. The one in his ensuite needs replacing, though. He gets more attacks in the shower than he’d like to admit.

 

Jared carefully pulls out a match and then feels for the bumpy side of the box.

 

Striking the match is a task he’s become used to, so with the first swipe there’s the hiss of the match-top, and, suddenly, light, in the darkness.

 

Jared lights the two tea lights on the vanity and then turns to light the scented one on the windowsill.

 

He drops the match when he turns back to the mirror, and, standing beside him, is the clown from his dream. He swallows a scream as they begin a staring contest that makes something jerk in Jared’s stomach.

 

Jared doesn’t want to turn and look over his shoulder to see if It’s real, if It’s there, he’s too terrified that It is. He’s too frightened to think for even a moment that he might not be alone in this tiny bathroom.

 

The clown parts its red lips, exhibiting a row of yellowed teeth, and smiles at him.

 

“Think you were safe, Jared?” says the clown. Jared swallows against the lump in his throat, but it does nothing to the sour taste he can feel in his teeth and his eyes. “Think just because you found a few other broken people I'd leave you alone? Are you really that dumb?”

 

Its eyes are glowing yellow, the white paint on Its face cracking. Jared doesn’t want to see what’s underneath, a primal urge to escape being the one and only thing that makes him tear his eyes away from the image.

 

Laughter echoes off the tiles and hurts his ears, and Jared knows before looking that the clown is gone, but when he goes to look up he can’t even see the candles anymore, can’t even see his reflection.

 

“Do you know what life would be without me, Jared? Take a look.”

 

Jared doesn't want to. But there he is, standing in the middle of a road, a familiar road, a road he’s walked hundreds of times.

 

“Bye Mom! Bye Dad! Love you!” calls a familiar voice, and Jared pivots on his heel, there’s Evan’s house, and there’s a boy walking down the driveway, getting into a little secondhand car. It can’t be Evan. Evan’s never stood that straight, before; Evan’s never spoken that clearly; Evan’s never walked that confidently before.

 

There’s a man exiting the house now, a man that Jared’s only seen in photographs on the mantle and on Facebook. He gets onto a bike and kisses Heidi on the cheek and goes cycling down the sidewalk as Evan pulls out of the driveway.

 

This is surreal. Evan smiling like that, driving a car. Evan’s father home. Heidi locking the door behind her, wearing nicer clothes than Jared’s ever seen her in, and getting into the only other car in the driveway? 

 

Jared doesn’t believe it.

 

He finds himself a few streets over, suddenly, and Alana’s house is up for sale. She holds a little boy’s hand as she exits the house, and kisses him on the cheek as she watches him walk the opposite way down the path, towards the elementary school, and flags down Evan’s car.

 

Alana gets in and they drive off, probably to school.

 

There is no haunted look in her eye, nothing hidden behind her smile. This Alana isn’t faking a single goddamn thing.

 

Jared then finds himself standing on the front lawn of the Murphy house.

 

Zoe exits, teal streaks in her hair, twirling a key ring of car keys around her index finger, and, as she climbs into the driver's seat, shouts to the open door, and to Connor, that they’re going to be late.

 

The Connor who exits is what shocks Jared the most.

 

His hair is still long, but there’s a happiness etched over his face, smile lines more prominent, dimples on display, a swagger to his walk that is absent in the Connor that Jared knows. This Connor wears a red T-shirt under his sun-bleached jacket, whose sunshine yellow socks peek out from the top of his beat-up boots.

 

This is a Connor that Jared doesn’t recognize.

 

“Alright,” he says, feeling way too pissed off that It manipulated his friends in this way, that this is what they could have had if It hadn’t meddled with their minds, left their sanity in pretty much tatters. “What about me? Got a sad little alternative universe me to show off, asshole?”

 

“Oh, Jared,” It chuckles. “Don’t you see? A world without me is a world without you, too! Look how happy they are without you, look how put-together they are!”

 

Jared watches the Murphys drive away, and the world falls away, leaving him in the darkness of his dreams. “Really?”

 

“Have I ever lied to you, Jared?” asks the voice.

 

_Yes._ “I don’t know.”

 

“I know everything. I know what everything would be like without you, or Zoe, or Evan, or Connor. That’s why I picked you. Don't you see? The world will be much better without you.”

 

“That’s not true,” he tries to argue, tries to see the good in the situation, like his mom is always saying, because there’s always a bright side, no matter how slim— 

 

“Sure it is. You’re fat and lazy and you’ll never get out of this town, because who’s ever left Cloverport? The families of the deceased. And your family didn’t even wait for you to be dead. They just left!”

 

“On vacation.”

 

“Do you really think they’re coming back? To see you, of all people?”

 

“Stop it.”

 

“You’re more pitiful than the rest of them. You know that?”

 

“They’re stronger than me, but—”

 

“Stronger?” It laughs, and the laugh is jarring. It’s different from the mocking laughter he’s used to. This laughter seems to convey absolute finality. It knows that It’s won. It’s already taken his king, and Jared’s still playing with pawns. For what? He’s already lost. Is he so daft to think that he can still win? “They’re equally as weak as you, equally as pitiful. Why do you think I show you them?”

 

When he looks up, he’s standing outside a shower. Someone, the person inside the shower, is screaming.

 

And Jared sees why.

 

Blood comes bubbling up through the drain, in the sink, in the bathtub, and raining out of the shower head. It froths by his bare feet, thick and warm, and Jared can’t even tell if this is a different bathroom from the one he was standing in moments ago.

 

“It took only a moment to unhinge Alana,” It informs him in a smug tone. Jared doesn’t know what’s worse; the fact that the blood is at his ankles, or the fact that It can sound smug. “She was just so predictable.”

 

It sloshes as his calves, and, fuck, why is it going so fast, and why is it frothing, and what is that banging, splintering noise?

 

“And Zoe,” It says.

 

“Stop it!” Jared cries, but it’s already too late, and Jared can already feel the scene changing around him.

 

“A little nightmare and she was done for! How stupid! How tiny!”

 

The blood is gone, and Alana’s scream still rings in his ears, but this time he’s standing on a stage and the whole audience is laughing at him, pointing, jeering.

 

“What—?” Jared turns when he hears the sobbing behind him.

 

Zoe is kneeling on the stage, the strings of her guitar snapped, her hands bloody and worn down to just palms, blood crusty and oozing against her skin. She lifts what’s left of them to her face, staining her face red, through her tears, sobbing uncontrollably into her wrists.

 

“Stop. Please, please stop it.” The laughing and shouting from the audience is so loud, and no matter how many steps Jared takes to get closer to Zoe, he can’t reach her. Jared rounds on the audience. “Where do you get off on this, you sick bastard? Stop it, stop it, stop it!”

 

Jared slams his hands against the glass that separates him from the audience, feels a wall pressing against his waist, holding him back, and he sees red, because how dare they laugh at her, can’t they see she’s hurting?

 

The laughter gets so loud, it’s all he can hear, he can’t even hear himself screaming for them to stop, can’t even hear the glass breaking until he realizes that they aren’t even really there.

 

Jared pulls away from the broken mirror, and stares at his jagged reflection. His hands feel numb. He doesn't want to look at them. But there’s blood smeared on the shards peeking out from the mirror, dripping from the edges. Jared didn’t even know he had the strength to break a mirror with his bare hands.

 

He swallows the tears in his throat. He hasn’t gotten lost in a hallucination in so long. It feels like he’s taken a step backwards. 

 

“Can’t you see what a mess you are, Jared?” It asks him, voice almost soothing compared to the audience of Zoe’s nightmare. “Don’t you want it to just stop?”

 

Something glints in the candlelight, and Jared almost recoils when he realizes that it’s a knife.

 

“Stop it, I mean it, you fucker.”

 

“You can fix it. Fix the image, Jared. Just do what you want to do. Get rid of the bits you don’t like, the ugly bits.”

 

“What?”

 

“Take the knife and fix yourself. You’ll know what to do.”

 

Against his better judgement, Jared feels his hand close around the handle of the knife. His hand shakes. There’s blood smeared on the vanity.

 

Jared looks up at his reflection — ugly, fat, a complete waste of space — and finds that It's right, he does know what to do.

 

He—

 

“Jared?” asks Evan’s voice through the door, and the lights flick back on.

 

“Um.” Jared looks at the door — locked from the inside — and back down to his hand. There’s no knife there, just a large shard of glass, pulled from the broken mirror. It slices at his palm as he drops it into the sink. “Yeah?”

 

Blood wells in the cuts, and Jared stares at it, mesmerized.

 

“I thought I heard your voice, but I just wanted to let you know that if you need me, I’m just downstairs, okay?”

 

“Okay,” Jared says, and hears Evan trudge away. He leans against the vanity for a second, heavily, and breathes in deeply. Evan couldn’t hear him screaming, couldn’t hear him begging and shouting. Couldn’t hear him fighting.

 

“It’s okay,” Jared whispers to himself, but it’s not. Not when he’s scared in his own house. Not when his best friend can’t hear him screaming at the top of his lungs. Not when he nearly gave in to it.

 

Jared wipes at his eyes, under his glasses, and turns on the tap.

 

He’ll find a way to fix the mirror tomorrow. For now, he’ll fix what’s physically broken of himself.

 

——

The Kleinmans might keep their towels in weird places, but their fluffy quality definitely makes it worth the hunt, Zoe decides, watching Alana wring out the last bits of water from her hair fifteen minutes later. It’s also weird to see the girl she may or may not have a crush on in a pair of Jared Kleinman’s boxers, but those and a stained Call of Duty 3 T-shirt (“Sorry,” Jared had said sheepishly, “I haven’t done laundry in a while”) were all they’d been able to scrounge up to serve as Alana’s pajamas for the night. Zoe had taken them gratefully at the time, just eager to get the other girl in something warm and dry, but as she eyes the mysterious red blotch on the shirt’s shoulder and questions its possible source, she’s starting to regret that decision. 

 

There’s only been a peaceful silence between them since their exit from the bathroom, but Alana breaks it now. “Thank you,” she says quietly, lowering her eyes to the pristine white comforter they’re both seated on, refusing to meet Zoe’s gaze. “I’m sorry you had to see that.”

 

The words hit her like a lightning bolt straight to the heart, and she can’t stop herself from leaning forward and grabbing Alana’s hands, twining their fingers together. Alana inhales sharply, and Zoe prays she’s not doing the wrong thing as she presses a gentle kiss to the other girl’s lips.

 

Alana is soft and warm and kissing her makes fireworks explode in Zoe’s chest, and her heart sings when the shorter girl hums contentedly and kisses back, squeezing her hand. She feels like she might fall to pieces when they pull apart after what could’ve been an eternity and she finds nothing but happiness in the other girl’s eyes. 

 

She might not be able to erase the memory of all the awful things It has done to Alana, but she can bring her out of the hallucinations now, and she can do this. So those are two things Zoe can do to help, however minor they may seem.

 

“That probably wasn’t great timing,” she breathes, all the air suddenly dissipating from her lungs (and isn’t that crazy, how Alana can leave her breathless with just one kiss), “and I know I should’ve asked, but — I just didn’t know what else to do, and I’m sorry. I couldn’t think of another way to tell you that you don’t _ever_ need to apologize for that. Because I — ”

 

Zoe doesn’t know why she gets choked up — maybe it’s the intensity of the moment, or her adrenaline from the scene in the bathroom finally crashing, or a million other things all at once — but she does, and she’s beyond thankful for the encouraging smile Alana sends her way. “I _want_ to be there for moments like that,” she manages to get out. “I want to help you through those kinds of moments, because I care about you, Alana. I don’t care how put-together you are or what your GPA is, I just care about _you_. And if you let me, then I promise I’ll believe you, always. I already do.”

 

Now they’re both crying again, silent tears spilling down Alana’s cheeks, and there’s so many things Zoe wants to say but doesn’t know how to, but then Alana wraps her arms around her, and their wordless embrace says everything she can’t.

 

They only break their hug when Alana lets out a muffled gasp against Zoe’s shoulder. “What? What is it? Are you okay?” Zoe asks, pulling away and searching for any sign of injury on Alana. She can’t find any.

 

“I’m fine,” Alana says, a brightness creeping into her tone that signals a typical Alana Beck Lightbulb Moment™, which Zoe’s only ever seen before in correlation to band fundraising ideas. “I just remembered — we have to tell the others about what you did. If you can break my hallucination,” she continues, “then maybe you’re not the only one. Maybe we can break each other’s hallucinations, too! Just think, Zoe, this could be the key to stopping It.” 

 

Alana sounds so excited, but there’s bags under her eyes, and her shoulders are slumped, and Zoe can tell that she’s tired. She needs sleep — they both do. It’s been a long day. “We definitely need to share this with everyone else,” she agrees, taking one of Alana’s hands again, “but it’s been a long day, Lana.” _Dammit_ , that nickname again. “We need to sleep,” Zoe adds. “And this can wait until tomorrow — it’s not like we’ll get anything done tonight, anyway, we’re all exhausted.” 

 

And for once, Alana doesn’t protest. She simply nods and says, “Okay.” There’s a brief pause, and Alana seems hesitant to get the words out, but she finally asks, “Could I maybe sleep in here tonight? I know this is your room, technically, but I — I don’t really want to be alone right now.”

 

Zoe’s heart aches at the undercurrent of fear in Alana’s tone. She sounds like Evan, anxious and expecting rejection, and Evan breaks her heart on the daily with that attitude, so hearing it from the girl she likes is even worse. “Of course,” she assures her. “C’mon, we can share the bed, I think there’s room for two of us.”

 

Alana looks skeptical at that, like she forgets how tiny she actually is, but sure enough, they both easily fit under the covers, and Zoe tries to keep her heart from beating right out of her chest as Alana’s head settles against the crook of her neck, body pressed to Zoe’s back.

 

_Holy shit_ , her brain is screaming, cuz not only did she figure out a way for them to sorta-kinda-maybe beat It and end countless years of torture, but she kissed her crush _and_ now they’re fucking spooning.

 

And maybe freaking out over that is stupid and petty and childish in comparison to the monumental terror that is It, but — 

 

In this moment, Zoe doesn’t really care. Alana makes her happy. Alana lets her focus on something other than the pain, the non-stop fear and exhaustion, and _god_ that’s amazing. 

 

She falls asleep with a smile on her face. 

 

——

It probably took Jared way too long to calm down. He’ll be absolutely honest. After patching himself up, he sat, huddled on the stairs for a good fifteen minutes, waiting for Evan to come back up the stairs and check on him again.

 

(It felt like that time, last year, when Evan broke his arm, and he told Jared about lying under the tree he fell out of, waiting for someone to find him. “And I kept thinking to myself: ‘Any second now, someone’s gonna come get me.’”

 

“Did they?” Jared had asked.

 

“No, no one came.”)

 

 

Zoe came to get clothes for Alana after a while.

 

(“Why does she need them?” he asked her. Zoe gave him a sheepish look. There was a speck of something red on her earlobe.

 

“There was a mishap with the bathtub.”

 

“I’ll see what I can do.”)

 

And then he’s alone, in the hallway of his dark, empty house, again. He needs something to get him through, tonight, if they’re all going to leave him alone. If they’re all going to ditch the plans.

 

Jared rushes through the living room, and waits several minutes for the kettle to boil.

 

A few minutes later, Jared walks out of the kitchen with a mug of tea, very quietly, and stops in the doorway, eyes adjusting to the dark. For a second, he thinks that maybe he’s wrong, that the thing moving in the darkness is really something horrible and gory, here to hand him another knife.

 

But that’s not It at all. No.

 

Jared blinks and sees, a little clearer, Evan, lying on top of Connor, kissing him like no tomorrow. Evan’s half pressed between Connor and the back of the couch.

 

Jared retreats back into the kitchen.

 

——

Connor doesn’t know if this is pity, or if Evan really feels this way for him, and, god, he hopes that it’s the latter, because he thinks he’ll die if Evan leaves him. It might be the fact that he’s a goddamned teenager and hormones fucking exist, or the fact that Evan is kissing him, or the fact that Connor’s never actually been kissed before, or the fact that they might well die soon. It might be real.

 

But Connor thinks he might be falling in love with Evan Hansen.

 

He knows they’re both so broken, and he wants to be the first to admit that love won’t fix him, that maybe nothing can, but he’s willing to love this boy if he’ll promise to patch Connor up when he needs it, and if Connor promises the same.

 

Connor wants to love him. Doesn’t want to be scared to love him.

 

Connor doesn’t want to be the one crying, hands on Evan’s face, hoping Evan won’t notice, because he’s falling, and falling too fast to not be afraid.

 

Evan notices. “Hey, hey, whoa.” He pulls his hand away from Connor’s hair, looks down at Connor with concerned eyes. “Oh, God, are you okay? What happened?”

 

Connor sits up, wipes at his face with his wrist. “It’s nothing…”

 

“It’s not nothing,” Evan retorts, and puts his hand around the back of Connor’s neck, thumb on the soft skin by Connor’s ear, near his cheekbone. “If you wanted me to stop— or slow down—”

 

“No!” Connor jolts, and then his hands are on Evan’s waist. He sees something soft and tender flood Evan’s eyes. “No, I want you to keep going, it's just that I’m… I’m so confused. No… no one’s ever done anything like this with me, before.”

 

There’s a soft silence.

 

Connor touches their foreheads together.

 

“I don’t know. I’m just such a mess, Evan. If all of that shit hadn’t happened, who would I be?” He doesn’t want all this to come out, now, but after today, after that hell of an attack, what’s he supposed to do? “If going blind wasn’t a normal occurrence, would I be the same person I am today?”

 

“You know what I think?” Evan’s hand trails down Connor’s arm, and he presses his thumb to Connor’s pulse point. It reminds Connor that he’s here, grounds him, tells Connor that he couldn’t be more alive than he is right now, heart racing, eyes wide, pressed so close to this boy.

 

“What?” Connor whispers, and shivers at the way Evan digs his nails into Connor’s scalp with the hand that shifts up to his hair.

 

“I think you’re a mess, and I’m a mess, and if you weren’t a mess, you wouldn't be Connor,” Evan says, and Connor wants to believe him so bad, feels his soul leaning forward in anticipation, wtih bated breath. “And I really like you.”

 

His breath hitches. “Really?”

 

“Yes.” Evan kisses him, again.

 

_Yes_ , Connor thinks, absently, as Evan kisses him, softly, with a tiny smile at the corner of his mouth and a laugh on his breath. He could love this boy with no problem. He could love this boy and not regret it for a moment.

 

Connor thinks that that’s when he hit the ground and fell in love with Evan Hansen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew, I know that was intense. Kudos to you for making it through, hopefully you somehow managed to still enjoy, and as always, thanks for reading.
> 
> I'll also be posting the next chapter, which will be from Zoe's POV, woo, get excited! We're getting closer and closer to what I affectionately call The Shitshow Where Shit Goes Down™.
> 
> Love y'all, thanks for being awesome! See ya in three days!
> 
> xo,  
> L


	16. fifteen: lost on some horizon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When you’re lucky enough to wake up next to someone as beautiful as Alana Beck, Zoe figures that the least you can do to pay the world back for that is buy your friends some coffee (even if it’s kind of mainly a favor for said beautiful girl because you’re getting coffee from her favorite shop).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! It's ls201 again with a new chapter, and I'm so excited to post this for you guys! It's a really short one, but trust me when I say it's quite important (it's a Zoe POV!). 
> 
> Title for this chapter is taken from "The Man With The Child In His Eyes" by Kate Bush.
> 
> tw: none that i can think of
> 
> As always, let me know if I've forgotten any trigger warnings or made any typos. And now, without further ado, let's hear from Zoe!

_fifteen._

When you’re lucky enough to wake up next to someone as beautiful as Alana Beck, Zoe figures that the least you can do to pay the world back for that is buy your friends some coffee (even if it’s kind of mainly a favor for said beautiful girl because you’re getting coffee from her favorite shop).

 

So that’s where she is, walking out the front door of Clover Caffeine, drink tray in hand, when she gets the text. 

 

Zoe sets the tray of drinks on a nearby table and fumbles for her phone, hastily pulling it out of her back pocket to check her messages. She hopes Alana’s not freaking out too badly at her random disappearance, but she’d left a note on the nightstand to circumvent that exact scenario, explaining that she’d run out to get coffee and would be back soon. Maybe she should have left it on her pillow, somewhere more visible — 

 

All thoughts of coffee and her note dissipate instantaneously as Zoe reads the text Alana’s just sent her. 

 

** From: Alana Beck **

** 8:45 AM **

** Zoey, I know you’re out, but please meet **

** me at the old Mellon house ASAP. I just **

** discovered something about It, and I’m **

** going to need your help. **

 

It only takes Zoe a second to process what she’s read, and then she’s sprinting to her car, coffee abandoned on the table.

 

——

The old Mellon residence is creepy, and as Zoe pulls up to the sagging abandoned house, she’s quickly reminded of why she and her friends had always been told to never come near the place. Not only was it the scene of a brutal murder, but it’s almost certainly a death trap — Zoe expects the cracked foundation of the house to crumble at any minute, bringing the entire structure down with it. In fact, she’s pretty sure she read something about that in a special murder-anniversary report on the Mellon house several years past, before Its attacks began — the article had ended with an ominous warning that anyone inside the house risked a violent end, and Zoe had laughed at the time. Five years ago, she’d scoffed at the mere idea of ever stepping foot inside the Mellon place. Now, she’s about to traipse through it with her crush. _Awesome._

 

She yanks her keys out of the ignition and gets out of the car, carefully avoiding the broken beer bottles that seem to line the driveway. Jared’s car is nowhere to be seen, and something twinges in Zoe’s gut as she wonders how Alana got here. Jared Kleinman might be an idiot sometimes, but he’s definitely not reckless (or evil) enough to just drop Alana off at the Mellon house. He’s grown up with the same stories she has.

 

“Alana?” she calls out, ducking her head to avoid a low-hanging beam as she steps through the doorway. “It’s Zoe! I’m here, where are you?”

 

Laughter echoes in her ears, and Zoe flinches. She didn’t just hear that, right? It was just a trick of the mind, maybe It trying to psych her out of meeting up with Alana. Yeah, that’s probably what just happened — It knows that they’re on the verge of finally figuring out how to beat It for good, and of course that’s the last thing It wants, so It’s gonna try to scare the crap out of her to make sure that doesn’t happen.

 

Trick’s on It, though, Zoe thinks, because they’re going to go through with this. She’ll help Alana, and they’ll destroy It. Together. 

 

She passes by piles of rubble, wanders through wallpapered halls marred with graffiti, all the while silently praying she’ll catch a glimpse of purple or find a trace of Alana _somewhere_. 

 

It’s not until she looks down and spots the dark bloodstain on the floor that she realizes she’s reached the back door. The same place where Adrian Mellon was murdered. 

 

She grabs for her phone and re-reads Alana’s text with shaking hands. 

 

She forgets how to breathe as she realizes her fatal mistake, the error she hadn’t noticed the first time around.

 

Alana spelled her name wrong. _Alana Beck_ , the girl who’s made it a point to memorize the correct spelling and pronunciation of every band member’s name for as long as Zoe’s known her, misspelled her name. 

 

That can’t have been Alana. 

 

Zoe’s fingers go numb. 

 

Who was on the other end? Who _really_ sent her that text?

 

She doesn’t even get to finish dialing Alana’s number before white-hot pain explodes in the back of her head, and everything goes black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp, Shit's about to Go Down™. 
> 
> On Tuesday (for Americans)/Wednesday (for Australians) you'll either be hearing from nosecoffee or HamiltonTrash, and they'll share a very unique perspective with you. A perspective you haven't experienced before, in fact. Get excited, it's gonna be good (it's also another collaborative chapter, woo). 
> 
> Much love to you all, and see you soon!  
> xo,  
> L


	17. sixteen: calling our names

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It hates the human race.
> 
> That's rather blunt, but It could care less.
> 
> The humans are weak and stupid, and It has been on this planet longer than they have. What's their right, setting down and claiming the Earth as their own?
> 
> It hates them, the hatred burning through it like fire.
> 
> But.
> 
> There is one common factor in these humans, among millions, that It likes.
> 
> Fear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey hey, guys! It's HamiltonTrash back with a chapter from the perspective of someone who we have all, at one point or another, wanted to physically assault. That won't have gone away by the end of this chapter. It might have intensified. 
> 
> So, trigger warnings for this chapter are as follows: mentions of blood, body horror, mentions of child death, death, honestly, just some creepy food analogies that seemed to fit. 
> 
> This one is yet another collaborative chapter, as all the rest of the chapters will be. Zoe and Evan's sections were written by the lovely ls201, the introduction, Adrian, Jared and Connor's sections were written by the prolific nosecoffee, and Alana and Dayna's sections were written by lil old me. 
> 
> Chapter title from 'Look Outside' by IAMX, which is a part of the incredible playlist ls201 created for this fic a while ago and I've only just come to appreciate as much as I should. 
> 
> Without further ado, I give you this chapter.

_sixteen._

It hates the human race.

That's rather blunt, but It could care less.

The humans are weak and stupid, and It has been on this planet longer than they have. What's their right, setting down and claiming the Earth as their own?

It hates them, the hatred burning through it like fire.

But.

There is one common factor in these humans, among millions, that It likes.

 _Fear_.

They're all terrified of the dark, and fire, the night sky and what stretches beyond it, and what lurks in the water.

It becomes those things for them, relishes their screams, relishes the taste of their coppery blood, and the way their souls satisfy it. The children are the most filling, if It’s honest.

It decides It can tolerate the humans, if they let It sleep, and if It can feast every so often in the souls of the young.

They don't know the decision that's come to pass, but they don't need to.

It would spoil the fun if they knew what It had planned for them, if they were expecting It.

➖➖

Adrian Mellon is almost an afterthought at the end of the cycle. Five children gone, all young and stupid and wrong - one of them climbed into Its lair, for fucks sake! - and It almost forgets to pick a sixth.

Adrian Mellon is almost the most obvious choice. Secluded from the town, right across from where It resides, haughty, vain, brave.

Doesn't he know that bravery is just stupidity with good intentions?

He must not.

So, It takes no time invading his mind, ripping through thoughts to find his deepest fear.

It stops short.

Someone as young as Adrian, usually all it takes is a wolf man, or a mummy, or a vampire, but Adrian is different.

Adrian fears the future. Fears what all this death could mean for the descendants in this town.

Well, It thinks, It’s always up for a challenge.

It starts after killing the fifth, by showing Adrian a future victim, some boy that It isn't sure of Itself, yet. Long hair, blind, and terrified.

Adrian is frightened. And, if that's how he feels after a simple vision, It cannot wait for the hunt.

Then a girl with no fingers and a broken guitar, tears streaming down her face, standing in the dark, like a ghost in a horror movie.

Adrian’s heart stops for a few seconds, frozen with fear.

The boy who knocks does almost double what the first two do. Because Adrian fears the blank look in this boys eyes, Adrian fears what the knocking means. Adrian fears this boy almost, above all.

When It decides to end it, to finish Adrian off, too exhausted and hungry to go forward with the planning It had been planning. It has two more visions left, but no time to use them.

Adrian senses the end, too.

It hears the storm coming, knows there less time than It had hoped.

It watches from the street, disguised by the streetlights, as he locks the windows and doors, face ghostly white and frightened.

It thinks Adrian Mellon must be dumber than It first thought. As if brick and wood and plaster could keep it out. It can invade his dreams and thoughts, and make him see kids suffering, see horrors that no one else can.

It is much too powerful to be stopped by a simple wall.

It goes in through the back door, anyway, for the fun of watching Adrian see the door opening over the bloody girl’s shoulder.

Adrian dies on his own, and It could laugh for the simplicity.

It travels back to Its lair, and sleeps.

➖➖

Picking and choosing is all well and good, It thinks, but at the point at which It gets to start hunting, that's when things get interesting.

Things start off almost too easily. Sweet, four year-old Connor Murphy comes right to It, no warnings, no hesitation, running head long to Its lair. It could almost laugh at the obscurity. He's so complex already, barely more than an infant, yet so many emotions already twirling and winding throughout his tiny human mind. He's soft. Vulnerable. He's a child, and doesn't understand that the heart he's built, surrounded by cushy, welcoming love is much too naïve to be realistic.

Don't these humans understand that the world is harsh, and that their hearts surrounded by lace and flowers will be ripped to shreds? Don't they understand that the world will tear them apart?

It will make an example out of Connor Murphy. He trips. And It takes his sight, leaving him in the dark.

If It could smile, It would, because it's immediately effective.

Connor Murphy is blind for a time, and that is lesson enough.

➖➖

It has very little tolerance for naïveté. And Evan Hansen happens to be the epitome of naïve.

Humans are so weak to begin with, so soft and vulnerable, so easily hurt. The most stubborn of them, the ones who believe they are invincible, they’re the best playthings. But the humans on the opposite end of the spectrum, those so gullible that It questions how they survive past infancy, they aren’t nearly as amusing. They are almost pitiable, really, and while they are the most obvious targets, the prey that It can capture and devour most efficiently, they are truly good for nothing more than a quick feed. Anything more than that, and It grows to resent them, cannot tolerate torturing them for much longer than a few months.

Evan Hansen is the exception, unfortunately for Its patience, because It cannot kill him. It must wait until he and all of his equally detestable friends are ready.

Sometimes, there are nights when It almost ruins everything, nearly ends the sad, short life of the sandy-haired boy right then and there, feels tempted to not follow through with the plan and simply wait another thirty years for a fresh batch of victims. And this is all Evan Hansen’s fault, frankly. It hates him. He is the purest-hearted of any human It has encountered, and he wishes to find the good in everyone — insists there is good in everyone. Even when the long-haired boy snarls at his friend in the hallway, It notes that Evan does not feel scared or upset — instead, he worries for the other boy, even develops a kind of _understanding_ with him.

He is disgusting, and It cannot wait to kill him, quick as the kill may be.

It eagerly anticipates the day when It can rid the world of not just Evan Hansen, but every soft-hearted, sniveling, _pathetic_ human like him.

That is when the world will truly be cleansed.

➖➖

It doesn't know why It picks Jared. Maybe because of the closeness between him and Evan; maybe because It sees the fear in him that constricts his lungs and makes his heart race.

Maybe because It is wandering, searching, and Jared Kleinman is all alone in a big house, watching a horror movie.

Maybe It likes cliché’s.

A simple invasion of Jared’s mind and It’s in business. Jared is the kind of narcissist who is less obsessed with the way they look, and more more obsessed over what people see when they look at him.

Narcissism is worse than stupidity, in Its opinion.

So, Jared is the next obvious choice.

After all, who isn't afraid of the dark?

After all, who _isn't_ afraid of being laughed at?

➖➖

Alana Beck is almost too easy to wear down. When it finds her, she is terrified, and it's not hard to extrapolate her fears from there. She is afraid of not being believed, of not being believed in. She is afraid of her point of view not being seen, and most of all, she is squeamish.

And so, she is readying a shower, hot, hotter than it needs to be, and calming her breathing, and It strikes. It doesn't like to make religious references, but it has to admit that this is on level with turning the Nile to blood. Next, It thinks, It should send locusts.

So the shower water turns to hot, congealing blood, and It turns of the tap in the sink and in the bath, and pushes blood through the small drain in the floor. And watches as she panics, pulling her robe tight around her, screaming so loudly, so hysterically, this is the most satisfactory reaction of this lot yet, overtaking that of Jared Kleinman.

It laughs, and knows the girl can hear It, relishes in the fact that she can hear the laughter, but cannot place the source, laughs at the blood she is so afraid of. Laughs at her parents coming in panicked, and not seeing what she sees, simply seeing a hysterical girl, screaming at nothing, sobbing at nothing, terrified at nothing.

It begins as It means to go on.

➖➖

Dayna Palmer is an easy target, barely more than a child in her fears. Naïveté is too soft a word for her, she who fears the Big Bad Wolf. It is almost boring for It, scratching at walls and growling is all It needs to do to get this child to draw into herself, separate herself from the rest of humanity. One step closer to her being ripe for the taking.

It is hungry, and Dayna is the entree to what promises to be a feast with the children It has chosen in its years of waking up, of gearing up for this.

It spends months making her draw up into herself like a wounded child, when all of a sudden her parents start undoing all of It’s hard work, and so It has to step up It’s game. It makes her see herself already bleeding, already wounded, and It has pushed her to the edge.

It watches in amusement as she decides to face It in It’s lair. As though she can beat It. Watches as she consults the townspeople, about missing children, dead children, the ones that came before her, and about the place she might find It.

She hears about the Willow, the one that has been here for half as long as It, but is still centuries, nearly Millennia, old. It feels as old as time, and the Willow had been It's refuge for as long as it has been there.

This girl thinks she's being clever, seems to think that It cannot see her, that It doesn't know what she's doing. That It doesn't know the moment she decides to end it one way or another, and climbs out of her window. That It doesn't know this scared little girl has done the teenager’s equivalent of running to daddy, has stolen her father's gun from its cabinet.

It wants to laugh. She thinks that a man made weapon can hurt it, can kill it. It will let her try, but knows it will watch as she fails miserably to re-stake a claim in her own life. As soon as It chose her, her life was not her own anymore. She was food for a hungry mouth, and nothing more.

It stalks behind her as she walks the way from her dwelling to the Orchard, huge and sickly on the energy It had been permeating the earth with for a Millenia. She is so small, insignificant, so near to her death, and It is itching to reach out, to start the bleeding, to start feeding. But she will be so much sweeter if she thinks she is close to victory.

So It waits, It watches. She stumbles through yards and yards of orchard, straying from the path the way she was told, and it is struck by the dramatic irony of what she's doing. She is so scared of a child's story, and yet, here she is, acting it out, her in her pretty little red nightdress, wandering through the woods, in search of a hungry wolf.

She wanders for a long time, and the sun starts to rise, filling her with even more hope, hope that she will see the morning. It knows she will not. It knows she will be dead by the time the sun has fully risen.

Her hands shake around the gunmetal, and it is this that shows it that even if this weapon could harm it, she would not hit It in any case. She is walking right to It, right to her death, and It cannot tell if that is funny or sad. Either way, It gets fed. Either way, the feast is started.

She finally arrives at the Willow, and It raises a root, tripping, throwing her off kilter. Throwing her off her feet, to the ground. She is suitably frightened, in the half dark, clutching a gun she had stolen, about to try and match wits with a creature beyond her comprehension.

And to show her just that, it catches a fear in her. A fear that this won't end with her. Just like Adrian before her. If it could grin, it would now. It projects the only one of the lot It had chosen for this cycle that It didn't show Adrian. Jared Kleinman, the insecure one.

It shows him to her huddled as though hiding, sobbing. The girl is confused, dazed, distracted, and it takes this moment to attack, biting at her arm, starting the ritual, shedding her blood onto It’s hallowed ground. It licks at Its lips, drinking in what little blood was left in its lips, sweet as good wine, It's first taste in thirty years.

The girl refocuses, and raises the gun as those little tears start falling. She shoots and It lunges, scratches, and she cries out and shoots again. The end is nearing, blood is pooling on the ground, and It watches her in delight as she shoots, once, twice, three times, and misses each of them. It begins to feel the pull of the girl's soul, ripe for the taking, easy to take, rip into, savour.

It pulls, It can just taste it, the innocence, and then there is a look in the girl's eyes, a look of recognition, and she raises the gun to her own head. Dayna looks at It, looks her fear firmly in the eye.

“Not today, motherfucker.”

It does not feed that day, and It leaves her body prone on the ground. It goes hunting.

➖➖

It enjoys all of Its targets, of course, but Zoe Murphy is perhaps one of Its favorites. It gets a particular thrill from toying with her, sending her the screams and shouts of her brother, forcing her to watch her precious fingers disappear before her very eyes, destroying each and every thing she holds dear until nothing remains.

It has been watching her and her brother for their entire lives. She has been fiery and fierce from birth, stubborn and overly persistent, two qualities that It detests the most in a race already so easily detestable. It knows It will relish torturing her, but her brother is an easier target by far, and It wants to save Its energy for the younger girl, ensure Its best and most twisted visions are reserved for her. So It focuses on Connor, and It waits until Zoe reaches thirteen years of age. Thirteen years, such a small chunk of time in comparison to the millennia It has thrived for, but apparently a milestone to celebrate in human years. Her parents, a shrill woman with an inability to cook and a stone-faced man with his daughter’s same arrogance, throw her a party and give her a brand-new guitar.

It gifts her with her first attack, a nightmare of a failed solo performed on that very same guitar.

Through careful observation and precise planning, It comes to discover that the best way to break Zoe Murphy is not to attack her pride — while she fears failure and rejection from those closest to her, she does not seem to care much for the opinions of the majority of her peers, likes to call herself “her own person”. No, the best way to break Zoe Murphy is to attack her very identity. So It attacks her fingers and her guitar, takes away the talent that she has built herself on. It attacks her attempts at perfection, curls up in her ear and mocks her parents’ laughter, weaves conversations filled with heavy sighs and admissions of disappointment in the daughter that tries so hard to be everything the son cannot, until she creeps closer and closer to Its ultimate goal of convincing her that she will forever live in someone else’s shadow. And It attacks her brother, shows her his suffering and then creates a world in which the protector becomes the perpetrator, a world in which Connor hates her almost as much as he hates himself.

She should be thankful, It thinks. It is just showing the girl her eventual reality, what will come to fruition because of her reckless arrogance.

Zoe Murphy represents the worst of humanity, every reason why It cannot wait to destroy them all one day.

Soon, It promises Itself. That day will come soon.

Until that day, It can remain satisfied with this small-scale destruction, which is so very rewarding at times. And Zoe makes it so easy — they all do, but. She walks directly into Its trap, wanders into the rotting structure that was once the Mellon house, the scene of young Adrian’s destruction a mere thirty years ago.

It is _so_ pleased to see her.

She is dressed in a blouse of blinding white, cheeks flushed pink with adrenaline as she steps through the front door, and if It could cackle, It would. Because the young girl resembles an angel in this attire, against all odds, and It is thrilled with this turn of events.

It cannot wait to take this angel apart. It will pluck the feathers from her wings, twist the golden metal of her halo, replace the rosy glow on her face with blood, taint the purity of her voice by blowing out her vocal chords with screams.

It is going to _wreck_ her. And won’t that be fun?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ooh! We are no further in the plot, and y'all are still in the dark about what's happening to Zoe, but at least we've see the creepy perspective of It, who apparently equates everything to food, if my sections are to be believed. 
> 
> But dont worry, the next chapter, which will be brought to you by nosecoffee, will take us much further in the way of plot. 
> 
> That said, if you liked this chapter, please give us some kudos, let us know what you likes in the comments, comments are the best way to get us to finish these final two chapters were still writing. Even if you just write 'consider this extra kudos' we will appreciate it immensely.
> 
> And, I'm gonna tease you a little. We have come up with a concept for our next collaborative work. It will be no less creepy, but it will be very different. We are super pumped to eventually share it with you guys. 
> 
> Have a lovely day, don't have nightmares, please and thank you. Love you all, see you on the next update. 
> 
> As always. You can find us on tumblr as follows: nosecoffee - @nose-coffee, HamiltonTrash - @cake-snake.
> 
> Thanks guys,  
> H.


	18. seventeen: know their dark returning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Zoe.” She breathes out, and Connor's eyes dart wildly up the stairs. “She was gone when I woke up, she left to go get coffee over an hour ago, and I thought she was down here, but she's not, and oh god, what if she's-”
> 
> “What do you mean, she left? Where did she- I don't-”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's nosecoffee. I'm back, did you miss me? Well, I've got a hell of a chapter for you today. Here are your trigger warnings:
> 
> Clown (briefly)  
> Panic attack (brief)  
> Blood (minor)
> 
> That's about it, but this chapter is heavy, so take care of yourselves. Alana's section was written by the lovely HamiltonTrash, and Connor was written by the gorgeous ls201, while Jared and Evan were written by me.
> 
> Chapter title from "All That's Known" from Spring Awakening
> 
> (This chapter is affectionately called, in the group chat, We Lost The Baby, because we thought that was fitting.)

_seventeen._

 Alana is drifting in and out of consciousness when she feels Zoe move away from her, hears the soft footfalls across the carpet, hears the door squeak close behind her. But she doesn't worry. Zoe told her that she would stay, wouldn't leave her, that she believed her. She promised, and Alana can't help but believe her.

She drifts into sleep, peaceful, content that Zoe would be back, that she would wake up with Zoe against her again, her reassuring arms around her.

But the bed is cold when she does wake finally. There aren't arms around her, nor soft breathing. She's not there.

Alana sits up, and finds a note on the small, dark wood bedside table.

_Gone for coffee. I'll bring you back a cup, and a muffin if they have apple cinnamon. I know you love those. Promise I won't be gone long. Zoe. (8:17am, in case you're wondering. :))_

She sighs and checks her phone. It's 9:30. Surely… surely she would be back by now. Maybe she’s in the kitchen. Alana tugs the boxers down where they've bunched and wrinkles her nose at the shirt she's been given. Not how she wants appear in front of her crush this morning, but it's what she has, and she will make the most of it.

She descends the stairs and listens to the ruckus the boys seem to be creating. Mostly Jared and Connor, arguing, though amicably, and occasionally a laugh from Evan. She can hear nothing from Zoe. She presses down the anxiety in her lungs that threatens to drown her on dry land.

Evan is by Connor's side, leaning against the benchtop, next to Connor, who is making pancakes, looking more carefree than he has ever in her memory. There's a light in his eyes and colour in his cheeks that she can't remember him having in the time she has known him. He looks so _happy_. And Evan is laughing, isn't stuttering, is present and vocal, and standing straight, and Alana was right when she thought he would tower over most people if he had more confidence. He's almost as tall as Connor.

Jared is curled in a chair, a smile on his face, but his knees tucked up under his chin. Like he's protecting himself. Like he's drawn back.

And _Zoe isn't there._

“Alana!” Connor greets, loud and grinning, and has no idea- Alana feels dizzy. “Is Zoe still asleep? She always does sleep late-”

“She's-” Her voice gets stuck in her threat, because he doesn't know, he thinks she's back in bed, he thinks Zoe is safe, and she might not be, she might be hurt, or dying, or out there somewhere under attack by this awful thing, and they don't know, she's all alone and afraid, and-

And Alana's knees collapse under her, and Connor is by her side in a few long strides, his face serious, worried, more like what she's used to.

“Are you okay?” He asked, and that's the problem, she is okay, but Zoe isn't, or she would be here.

“Zoe.” She breathes out, and Connor's eyes dart wildly up the stairs. “She was gone when I woke up, she left to go get coffee over an hour ago, and I thought she was down here, but she's not, and oh god, what if she's-”

“What do you mean, she left? Where did she- I don't-”

“I don't know where she is, Connor. I swear, I was with her all night, but I don't know where she's gone.”

Connor's mouth is gaping open and closed, like he's trying to speak but no sounds were coming out.

She tries to fix the calm she's broken. “I'm sure it's fine, I'm sorry, I'm being paranoid. What cafe does she frequent, I'm sure she's just there, I'm sure it's fine.”

“Umm, Clover Caffeine, I think, something like that, something with a little grey and white four leaf clover as it's logo.”

“Okay, we can go there. Connor, you call her, see if you can reach her, she'll answer you. Alana, can you drive, Jared and I can't, and Connor doesn't know how.” Evan says, having turned the stove off, and approaching the two panicking teenagers.

Evan's hand is on Connor's shoulder, and Connor seems to relax under him, not quite calm, but certainly not as tense as he had been. There's this soft look in Evan's eyes as they look at each other, and Alana realises it's trust. They trust each other so completely, despite having met only a few weeks ago, and Alana's heart leaps, because that's how she felt when Zoe kissed her, when Zoe held her, when Zoe-

Zoe is gone. Alana is running up the stairs, trying to find any clothing that would make her look presentable to the outside world, finding a pair of jeans on the floor of Jared's room, not freshly laundered, but certainly not dirty, and a button up that was hanging up in his closet.

“Sorry, I'm borrowing your clothes again.” She shouts, and she hears Jared laugh, tense, afraid, but still amused.

Alana can only hope they find her before It does.

\- -

Jared hates this. Last night was bad enough. He fell asleep on the stairs, too afraid to go into his room, alone; too embarrassed to interrupt whatever had been happening on the couch. Whatever succeeded whatever had been happening on the couch. He didn't want to know.

The evidence had been there when he woke up. Connor’s hoodie and jeans shed to the floor beside the couch, Evan lazing on said couch, under the throw blanket Jared had given them.

Jared doesn't want to think about it. There are more important things to think about than an internal argument guessing whether or not Evan...Evan and Connor...

_It's not important._

He's in the backseat next to Evan, who has a worried look etched into his face. In this light, with that expression, he looks just like his mother. He looks like Heidi, that one time, in the third grade, that Jared fell off his bike and scraped all up his leg. Evan had half-carried him back to his house, and Heidi had patched him up, tapping him on the nose and handing him a prepackaged cookie to make him feel better.

Jared imagines that Heidi would want to help.

Jared wants to help. Jared _doesn't know how._

Alana’s speeding.

Connor’s jittering in his seat, knuckles white where his hands are clenched on the seat.

Evan’s gazing at the grey sky with a look on his face that Jared can't quite read.

“The sky looks like it's going to crack open.” He comments, tone experimental in its loftiness.

The comment falls flat in the silence of the car. Jared sighs. Evan reaches for Connor’s hand. Connor flinches. Evan sits back, and looks back up at the sky, eyes shiny.

“I think I saw that it was gonna storm.” Jared says.

“Fan-fucking-tastic.” Connor spits.

Alana breathes in, shakily, and Jared leans forward, putting a hand on her shoulder. “It's gonna be okay, she's gonna be okay, I swear.” He says. Alana only tenses up, further, hands tight on the steering wheel.

“Tell that to Jake Chamber.” She says.

“Who?” Evan asks.

“Jake Chamber, fourteen years old. Born in 1972, died in 1986. Crawled into a drainpipe, and died of severe blood loss, washed up on the shore of the Ohio river, just off the boardwalk.” Alana has tears in her eyes, Jared can see them in the rear view mirror. Jared is more afraid in this moment than he was in the bathroom. “His brother let him pick which colour he should paint his car with, and, after Jake died, his brother couldn't even look at it. He had to repaint it. He moved out of town.”

“Alana, don't-” Connor begins, but Alana plows on, as if he'd never said a word.

“Helen Shyers, born in 1968, died in 1986, found dead in the school gym, bled out, on the floor, from severe wounds to her chest and throat. Parents tried to sue the school, lost the case. Moved out of town.” Alana continues, a frantic pace set, eyes wide, foot pressing down on the gas, harder and harder with each second. “Timothy Breakstone, born in 1970, drowned in the Cloverport water tower, and bled out from tiny cuts all over his body. He was found five weeks after his initial disappearance.”

Connor looks back at Evan and Jared. He looks shocked, and lost, and scared, and his eyes keep flicking to the speedometer. “Gretchen Brooks, born in 1969, thought to have been mauled to death by a rabid dog. Ruth Gaitlin, born in 1965, died under her own bed with no injury towards her body, just dead. Adrian Mellon, born in 1972, died from severe blood loss in his own home, discovered by a passing pedestrian who called for help.”

“A-A-Alana-” Evan stutters out. She doesn't listen. It's like she's in a kind of panicked trance.

“The records only stretch back to murders in 1926, but there are newspaper clippings about children acting odd and going missing and dying all through this town's history-”

“Slow down!” Connor cries. There's a cork in Jared’s throat. He can't speak.

“This is just the tip of the iceberg, the icing on the cake, we are not the start, we are not special, we are routine,” it's like she's reciting a poem, a command, a message, it's like a warning, like a promise, like a threat. Her voice doesn't sound like her own, distorted and ringing. “We are a cycle, we are _dead fucking meat,_ we are a game to It, a hunt, and there's no way to stop It, nowhere to hide, nowhere far enough to run, and-”

“ALANA!” Jared shouts.

She slams on the brakes and everyone lurches in their seats. Alana takes a few deep breaths and gets out of the car, leaving it running. They're only a street away from the the coffee shop. Connor pulls the keys out of the ignition, and tosses them to Jared as they all climb out of the car and run after Alana.

She's fast, Jared will give her that. But Connor’s faster. He catches up to her, stops her with hands on her shoulders, pushing her gently against the wall of the candy shop.

“Alana, _please.”_ He says, a look that Jared can't quite make out on his face.

Alana breaks down and he tugs her into his chest.

Jared stops. He shouldn't be seeing this, or, at least, it feels that way. Feels much too personal. Evan stops, beside him, a pained look on his face. “How do I help?” Evan whispers. Jared can only imagine how he's feeling. There's something anxious, something heavy, ticking in his chest, telling him they're on a clock.

“You just have to let it happen.” Jared replies. He doesn't want to have to say it, but if he's going to be the only put-together person, he's got to try and make sense of all of this. “Stay with them. Don't let Alana back in the car until I get back.”

He gives Evan the keys, and starts towards the coffee shop that's actually not too far from where they stopped.

The café is actually rather nice, Jared notes, in the back of his mind, pushing his way to the counter. “I'm sorry,” he says, the smell of coffee thick in his nostrils. “Hey, excuse me!”

A tired looking barista with a hat turns to him. “How can I help you today?” He asks, giving Jared a Customer Service Smile, voice holding an underlying tone of boredom.

“Sorry, did a girl come in here, about an hour ago? Long hair, shoes that have stars on them? White blouse?”

The guy glances over to the floundering barista currently taking orders. “I was just about to go off shift. But, yeah, she came in at about eight-thirty.” The guy sighs, leaning on the muffin case. He points out the front windows. “Ordered five drinks and promptly left them all on a table outside like the fucking fairies were gonna drink them.”

Jared spins around and looks to where the guy is pointing, to a small table by the side of the road where a tray of take-away cups sit. “Thanks!” He calls over his shoulder, sprinting out of the café.

He meets Evan’s eyes, down the street, and gestures for him to come over. Evan nods and moves to put a hesitant hand on Connor’s shoulder. Jared turns back to the coffees. One of them has a J scrawled on it.

Jared picks it up, and takes a sip. He grimaces at the cold sugary drink. She's been gone for too long.

\- -

Connor can’t seem to do anything but stare at that fucking cardboard drink tray, the only proof that his sister was ever even here, that she was _alive_ some unknown number of minutes ago.

He picks up the cup closest to him, and his breath hitches when he sees the messy “C” scrawled across the top in purple Sharpie. Zoe loves that purple Sharpie, she’s used it for yearbook signings since middle school and always has it in her backpack. She must have taken it with her today to label their drinks.

Connor examines the marks on the side of the cup. It’s the shop’s dark roast, one packet of raw sugar added to the coffee. His heart aches as he glances at the other cups and realizes that Zoe must’ve memorized their favorite drinks, cuz each cup is tailored specifically to what they like. A chai tea latte for Alana, a caramel macchiato for Jared (two shots of caramel syrup, and whipped cream to boot), and peppermint hot chocolate for Evan. Zoe, of course, had ordered a caffè latte.

Tears bead in the corners of his eyes, and he angrily wipes at them with his hoodie sleeve. How fucking proud would Larry be of him right now, he thinks bitterly. _Crying over five cups of coffee. What a manly man you are, Connor Murphy._

Evan places a comforting hand on his shoulder, and Connor automatically relaxes into his touch. Next to them, Alana curses softly, and Connor can feel Evan start at the unexpected noise. “I’ve called her ten times,” she says, voice high and desperate, phone clutched in her hands. “Her phone isn’t off, because the call never goes straight to voicemail, it rings a couple times before that. But she’s not picking up.”

At the mention of the phone, gears start turning in Connor’s head. “Wait,” he says, reaching for his own phone in his jacket pocket. “Zoe has a tracking app on her phone — we both do, our parents installed them a couple of years ago. They can look on the app’s map and see where we are, but we can also see each other on there.”

“Wow, talk about controlling,” Jared remarks, eyebrows raised. “How’d you get past that one, Connor? I mean, couldn’t your mom see you were still buying weed behind the bleachers from Jack Casey every Friday?”

Connor’s known Jared long enough now to recognize that he’s just lashing out because he’s scared, because he shares in this fear they all have for Zoe’s safety, but that doesn’t mean his comment doesn’t sting.

Rage boils in his veins, anger rearing its ugly head, but Evan gives his shoulder a gentle squeeze, and Connor finds it in himself to push the frustration and irritation away, manages to keep his instinct to overreact at bay. He gives Jared a simple shrug, busying himself with the search for the app on his phone as he replies, “Jake Casey also happens to know how to jailbreak an iPhone. I can fake my GPS location whenever I want.”

“Zoe, however, can’t,” he finishes, a relieved smile spreading across his face as the map pops up, Zoe’s location a bright red beacon in one corner. Everything’s going to be fine, he can convince himself of that now, they know where she is and they’ll be off to get her in a minute, and of course everything won’t actually _feel_ fine until he’s got his hands on her and can hug his little sister so tight they’ll both nearly break, something he hasn’t done in years, too many years —

The smile disappears from his face when he takes a second look at the map and realizes where Zoe is.

She’s on Bramblet Road. And Connor’s chest tightens at that, because he _knows_ that road. They all do.

It’s a road that no kid in Cloverport has dared to cross in thirty years. Crumbling and decrepit, just like the house it hosts. Cars won’t stop there at night. Connor’s grown up with the tales of the horrors that road holds.

It’s the road where the Mellon family once lived.

“Fuck,” he hisses under his breath. Evan tugs at him, questioning, but Connor can’t focus on anything other than his phone screen. “ _Fuck_ ,” he repeats, louder now, panic setting in as the hopelessness of the situation dawns on him.

“What is it? Did you find her? Where is she?” Alana demands, pushing in between him and Evan to peer at the map. After a couple seconds, she, too, starts to freak out.

“She’s on Bramblet Road,” Alana says to Jared and Evan, the volume of her voice increasing with every word. _“Bramblet Road._ You know what that means, right?”

“Of course I know what that means,” Jared retorts, “we _all_ do, everyone here grew up with the same stories as you did about that road, Alana.” His tone is sharp-edged and defensive and mean, and Connor would have half a mind to call him an asshole, but Evan is pale and silent next to him and his little sister is at the fucking Mellon house and suffice it to say that he’s got bigger problems right now.

He shoves his phone into his pocket and takes Jared’s keys from Evan’s limp hand. “Jared, I hope you don’t mind if I borrow your car, but I’ve got an abandoned house to get to. Evan, stay with the both of them and keep Alana calm, please. I’ll be back soon.” He doesn’t even give her time to protest, just turns on his heel and starts to walk away. He doesn’t take in Evan’s face one last time, doesn’t try to make peace with Jared, doesn’t attempt to comfort Alana or tell her that he knows she’s in love with his sister. He doesn’t think he could handle that right now, because he’s all too aware that he’s lying when he tells them he’ll be back soon. He probably won’t be back soon. This is probably it, his final fucking showdown with the demon that’s been torturing him for thirteen miserable years, and he’ll probably die in that godforsaken house.

But that’s okay, because he doesn’t mind dying all that much ( _don’t think about Evan when you say that_ ) if he does it saving his sister. He’d die for her without a second thought. That’s what it means to be a big brother.

And God only knows he’s fucked up at that for long enough.

But of course Alana can’t let anything fucking rest, and she’s caught up to him in seconds, grabbing the keys back from him before he can even fully process what’s happening. “Connor, you’re not doing this alone,” she says fiercely. They lock eyes, and Connor’s nearly blown away by how intense her gaze is. No wonder his sister turns into a babbling pile of mush around her.

Jared and Evan are hot on her heels. “C’mon, Murphy, try not to be such a dramatic fucking emo for once,” Jared says lightly. “You think we’d let you do this by yourself? We care about Zoe too. Besides, you can't fucking drive.” Evan remains quiet, but his eyes are wide and his cheeks are bright red, and Connor can tell that he’s unbearably anxious.

“I appreciate that,” he says, doing his best to keep any trace of nerves out of his voice, and dismissing the thought that _Jared is completely right, and Connor doesn't know the first thing about driving a car,_  “but I have to do this alone. I’m her brother, it’s what I’m _supposed_ to do. I can risk my safety for her, but you guys can’t. She wouldn’t want that.”

And suddenly, Evan bursts into life.

“ _No_ , Connor, Zoe wouldn’t want you to _die_ ,” he argues, stepping forward and staring straight at him. It feels like Evan’s looking straight into his fucking soul. “She wouldn’t want you to die when you have three other people right here, offering you help,” he continues, closing the gap between them. “And you’re going to die if you go in alone.” Connor can now see that his eyes are shiny with tears, and his chest burns at the sight.

“Let us come with you,” Evan begs. Their noses are almost touching, and Connor wants so badly to comfort him, hug him, kiss him, do _something_ to take away the fear in his eyes. But he can’t. He can’t, because if he allows himself to touch Evan, to find even a brief moment of relief or happiness, he won’t be able to save Zoe. He’ll fail her. And Connor could never live with that.

Evan must be able to read the resistance on his face, because he looks away, sniffling slightly (Connor swears his heart actually cracks in half at that). “I don’t want you to die, Connor,” he whispers, voice breaking on his name.

And at that, Connor’s last stubborn wall finally crumbles.

He gives in.

“Fine,” he says, tossing the keys to Jared, “but you’re driving, Kleinman.” Evan lets out a small sob at his words, and Connor pulls him to his side, the shorter boy curling into him as they head to the car.

And as they peel off, tires squealing, an unbidden memory interrupts Connor’s stream of thoughts, the scene playing right before his eyes like it was just yesterday.

_He is ten years old, and he is tired of playing The Knight and The Princess, honestly. He’d much rather be alone. He can’t hurt anyone that way._

_But Zoe is eight, and she still believes in the awe-inspiring greatness of her older brother. She also still believes in fairytales, narratives of knights, princesses, and dragons, and who is Connor to deny her of that? Especially, as she’d reminded him with a pouty glare, when he still owes her for missing her soccer game last week._

_Connor doesn’t tell her that he was at a doctor’s appointment, getting poked and prodded by yet another fancy-schmancy specialist. He doesn’t tell her that he’d begged their mother to change the appointment, to schedule it just an hour earlier, to outright cancel it — anything, he’d asked her, was there anything she could do to make sure they got to Zoe’s soccer game on time? It was her first match, after all, as Junior League Captain._

_Zoe had been so proud when she’d told them, tiny chest puffed out, smile so wide. She’d beaten an older girl out for the position, some overambitious nine-year-old whose name started with an A. And Connor had wanted to be there for her. She had no idea how much he’d wanted to be there._

_But Cynthia had sighed and told him she’d booked the appointment two months in advance, and then the specialist had run late, and they’d ended up missing the game entirely._

_Connor will never forget the look on Zoe’s face when they’d come home that evening._

_So here he is, a ten-year-old boy playing The Knight and The Princess with his little sister, running through the backyard like he’s not scared everything will go black and he’ll slam into a tree at any given moment._

_He’s not even playing the knight. He’s the princess, the one in need of rescuing. Zoe had insisted._

_“Worry not, Princess Connor, it is I, Knight Zoe, here to rescue you!” his sister announces, leaping onto his back from behind and startling him. Connor has to wonder where she learned how to talk like that._

_It’s a stupid game, but the elated giggles of his sister in his ear, so unlike the mocking laughter that’s normally there, make it all worth it. Connor will sit there and wear a paper crown and let her rescue him as many times as she wants._

_And, he vows, someday, if she ever needs it, he’ll rescue her._

_Even if it seems like she’s always the one rescuing him._

“It’s my turn, Zoe,” Connor murmurs.

No one else hears him, but that doesn’t matter.

Connor just hopes she knows.

He’s coming for his sister.

\- -

Somehow, if it's even possible, the following car ride is even worse than the initial one. Before they'd been frozen with fear over not knowing where Zoe was. Now, they're frozen with fear over knowing where she is, and the fear that comes, unbidden to all of their minds when they think of it.

There is silence. Nothing but them and the car and the road and their fear and the silence. Evan doesn't know what's scarier; the silence, or the overwhelming feeling that he won't actually live to see the sun rise ever again.

Evan wonders, looking out the window, if his mom felt this scared, the night she found Adrian’s body, if she was this scared the day in the rain.

Almost as if the sky read his mind, thunder crashes over their heads, loud, even through the walls of the car, lightning streaks across the sky like a rip in the fabric of the atmosphere and rain begins to dot the windshield.

Evan hears the wind whistles past the car as Jared speeds down the road. Evan is scared.

He shakily pulls out his phone and is dialling before Jared can even look over at him.

“Whatcha doing, Ev?” Jared asks, in a tone with an edge to it, as Evan lifts the phone to his ear.

“Gimme a second.” Evan says, and is genuinely surprised at how even his voice is, how level, how calm it sounds. The rain starts to get harder and faster, accumulating on the windshield.

Jared turns back to the road and Evan watches his chest rise and fall unevenly. The ringing of Heidi’s phone in his ear is a little distracting, but it still dawns on Evan how petrified Jared must be, right now. Jared flicks on the windscreen wipers.

Evan realises, as he hears Heidi’s breathless voice say, _“Hello,”_ that his mother must have been on shift. That he was interrupting her shift with a final goodbye. He feels so selfish, so guilty. He thinks, if they're lucky, someone will find their bodies (the way he found Dayna’s) and they'll be taken to hospital before she goes home. He'd hate to inconvenience her.

 _“Ev?”_ Evan never answered.

“Uh, yeah. Hi, mom.” He replies. The entire car seems to get colder by a couple of degrees.

“You called your mom?” Jared hisses, looking conflicted, eyes flicking between him and the road.

 _“Ev, honey, is something wrong? I know you hate calling. What's happened?”_ His mother’s voice still has a breathless quality to it, but it does the trick. He calms, hearing it, soothing in his ear, like the first time he was attacked. The way she'd held him tight, and whispered that he was safe and she'd always keep him safe and he never had to feel scared because she'd be there.

She can't be there for him, now, and he'd feel bad getting her to drive across town just to find his body. What if she died, too? Evan couldn't do that to her.

“No, nothing's happening.” Evan says, and even he can hear how his voice has started trembling. “I just wanted to call and say that I love you.”

He hears her breath hitch and knows that that was the wrong thing to say, the worst thing he could've said. His attempt at being subtle fell through immediately.

 _“Evan, where are you?”_ She sounds scared, and that's exactly what he didn't want to do.

“I'm fine.” Evan insists to her, but he knows it's already too late, she knows.

 _“No you're not.”_ Heidi presses. _“Where are you?”_

“I love you.” He whispers, into the phone, feeling something heavy and tight rise in his chest, making it hard to breathe.

 _“Evan Hansen, you tell me where you are, right now-!”_ She cries, sounding desperate, and he doesn't want to let go, wants to tell her everything, wants to break down. He wants to demand that Jared stop the car, and get out, and let them go to their deaths without him. He wants to run back home and curl up in his mother's arms, let her comfort him.

And then Evan remembers where they're going, and who they're going there for. If he doesn't go, he's giving up on Zoe and them before even seeing the threat as what It was.

He can't leave them. They need him, and he needs them, and if they have any chance to survive this, it's together. He can't be the one to break the chain, as much as he longs to.

“Bye, mom.” He hangs up, and turns off his phone, shoving it in the glovebox.

“Why the hell did you do that?” Jared asks. The car bounces as they turn onto an unkempt road. “She's gonna know.”

“I don't know.” Evan says, tasting tears in his throat, and hastily swallowing them. He can't afford to cry right now.

“Dammit, Evan.” Jared whispers. He looks so scared. Evan wishes they weren't in this position. Wishes Zoe wasn't gone; wishes Connor never felt the need to die for her; wishes Alana wasn't so scared that she could barely speak; wishes Jared didn't have to go through this, especially when he hadn't been there for him, last night, especially when Evan had no idea what he'd been doing in the bathroom the night before.

(Evan had walked into that bathroom, later that night, and there was a neat pile of mirror shards in the bin, and an empty frame on the wall. There was a few specks of blood on the vanity, and Jared has bandages wrapped around his hands. Evan’s not an idiot, but he is a coward, and he knows how self conscious Jared is, so he'd never bring it up, even if he knows that it's the right thing to do. They're all going to die, so what's the point, anyway?)

Evan doesn't want to think about something he can't fix right now (and might never have the chance to fix). He looks out the window, and immediately recoils. The clown from his childhood, claw wrapped around the strings of a bundle of multicoloured balloons, stares back with yellow eyes.

He inhales sharply, and loudly. Jared slams on the brakes, as if realising that they've arrived at the same time that Evan does.

The car skids, and Evan is forced to rip his eyes away from the object of his fear.

Jared manages to get the car to stop, parked longways over the road. Evan scrambles to look out the window, but the clown who’d been standing on the front path is gone, disappeared.

Evan gets the feeling, even before Connor opens the back door, that Zoe is not there.

Still, he follows Connor out into the rain, onto the dreaded, cracked, overgrown path, up the rickety porch, into the creaking, house.

“Zoe!” Connor calls, already running up the stairs.

Evan can't help but feel that this is familiar. Maybe it's just because he recognises the aura of this place, or maybe because of the presence his mother left here.

Evan walks, cautiously through the bottom of the house. Connor’s footsteps above him creak and groan, and dust falls from the ceiling. His voice echoes around the house, and if Evan didn't know any better, he'd almost say this house was haunted.

Connor would make a good ghost, pale, and tall, and dark. Evan shakes the thought away.

Evan reaches the doorway to the kitchen, near the back door, a bloody handprint dried and crusty on the off-white paint. It's been there as long as the dried blood on the floor. He steps forward to out his hand to the tiny handprint and hears something crack under his sneaker.

He looks down. It's a phone.

Evan stoops down and picks it up. There's a long crack stretching across the front of the screen. He presses his thumb to the home button and the lock screen shows a picture of a guitar.

This is Zoe’s. And if this means anything, it means she's gone.

He hears Connor’s boots as he stomps down the stairs and skids into the kitchen. He turns to look at Evan and his eyes lock on the phone.

“Oh, god.” Connor whispers.

Alana’s hand falls on his shoulder. Jared appears behind Connor.

“She isn't here.” Evan announces, in as steady a voice as he can muster. Thunder crashes and the wind blows so hard it seems to shake the house to its foundations. It whistles through the broken windowpanes.

“What does that mean?” Jared whispers, eyes flicking between the handprint and the phone.

The front door creaks open, as if one cue, and rain begins to pelt the entryway.

Evan looks out the door, to the gnarled and bent trees that mark the entrance of the orchard he despises.

“I guess, it means,” he says, slowly. “She's in there.”

 _“Fuck.”_ Connor says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really hope you liked this chapter! If you did, please drop a comment, telling me what, and let me know if there's any typos/trigger warnings I missed. If you haven't, already, please leave a kudos, because they're greatly appreciated.
> 
> If you'd like to see when updates come out, or something like that, you can find us on Tumblr @nose-coffee (me) and @cake-snake (HamiltonTrash).
> 
> Thank you very much, see you next chapter, which is, you guessed it, the Showdown chapter! Bye!


	19. eighteen: no desire to run

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There’s his mother. She looks different. He’s never seen her wear a dress before. It’s tan, and the skirt is ripped a little, falling just past her knees. Her curly blonde hair, the hair that looks like sunshine, like buttercups and daffodils, is pulled away from her face in a loose plait. In her hands, she holds a paper boat.
> 
>  
> 
>  _The S.S. Evan,_ it reads, on the side, in his father's chickenscratch.
> 
>  
> 
> Heidi holds it out in front of her. “It’s time,” she says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CHECK OUT THIS MONSTER OF A CHAPTER. GOD THIS WAS SUCH ADUN CHAPTER TO WRITE.
> 
> Anyway, it's nosecoffee again. Bringing you your dose of horror and pain for the start of the week. I hope you're ready, because this chapter's an absolute doozy. Here are your trigger warnings:
> 
> Blood (so much blood, like, straight up, and then all the way through, so be aware)  
> Suicide  
> Body horror  
> Gore  
> Suicidal ideation  
> Self deprecation
> 
> I hope that covers everything, but please do let us know if we've missed anything, because the last thing we want to do is trigger any of you.
> 
> Chapter title from "When All Is Said and Done" by ABBA

_eighteen._

As they stand on the porch, looking out over the cracked asphalt, Alana is appalled and amazed to see the droplets of water cease to fall, making a dry path from the front door of the Mellon house to the entry of the orchard, and possibly beyond. It’s sickening. It is laying out a red carpet to lead them to their deaths. It is leading them to It.

 

But she remembers, through her revulsion and fear, that Zoe is at the other end of that path, probably scared, and hurt, and with It. And she starts running, following the path It has chosen for them, blocking out the yells of the boys behind her, ignoring the hands — chipped black polish on the nails — Connor’s hands trying to pull her back.

 

“Alana, you’re the one who said we need to be smart about this!” someone yells — Jared, she thinks, and Connor is in front of her, holding her back. His eyes are wild and fierce, and she stops dead, but still feels that pulling in her that wants to take her to Zoe, to help Zoe. And she knows that he does, too, by the way his grip on her shoulders falters.

 

“She’s out there, right now, she’s scared and she’s with It, and for all we know she might be dying!” she sobs, and there are tears running down her face, or maybe it’s the start of droplets of rain, or maybe some of that ever-present blood, she doesn’t dare check. 

 

And she sees Connor’s chest heave, and watches him close his eyes, and open them all too fast, and knows that like her, that image of Zoe, scared and dying, is hiding behind his eyelids, and he cannot stand to look at it.

 

“There’s no time to be sensible. I don’t give a fuck what I said earlier, Zoe is out there, and I’m going to help her.” She shakes Connor’s hands off her with minimal effort and keeps running, sprinting, through the gate, which drifts open as she approaches, and she doesn’t have time to consider how creepy that is, she runs through it, and she can hear the boys right behind her, none of them yelling, none of them telling her to stop now.

 

Connor overtakes her, and soon so does Evan, more in his element than anybody else as the path leads them off the barely discernible trail and through the trees. They all know where they’re going.

 

Soon they would reach the Willow Tree. And they would find It.

 

More liquid falls on her face, and she wipes away the scarlet that obscures her vision. She feels her heart stop, seeing the blood on her, on the boys, pouring from the sky around them, not sinking into the sodden ground, instead staying above it, creating puddles, rising, rising levels, faster than the blood can fall. It is to her ankles now, her silver loafers now stained irreversibly and Jared’s jeans steeped in the stuff. She feels ill, but presses on. 

 

Soon, she is waist-deep in the stuff, and the level is rising faster and faster, and she’s wading through it, falling behind, sputtering, watching the boys run on like the blood isn’t there, like it isn’t slowing them down, like she’s overreacting, like she’s wrong, and her lungs are at capacity, and she collapses, right into it. It is still warm, and disgusting and sticky, and it fills her mouth, her nose, her ears, she hates it, but she cannot move, her body doesn’t allow it.

 

She has to float. She feels her body suspended in the thick liquid, buoyant against all odds, and she wants to scream, but the blood is in her lungs. She is going to die, die before she said goodbye to Zoe, before she’s kissed her one las time, before she’s seen her smile one last time.

 

And beyond the thick liquid in her ears, she hears that awful, malicious laughter. The laughter of her enemy. The laughter of the thing that has Zoe, is going to hurt her. Is going to kill her friends.

 

She screams, and struggles, and thinks of Zoe, the fact that Zoe is real, and that this isn’t, as real as it seems, as real as it feels, and she wishes she could see Zoe again, see her friends, not her acquaintances anymore, her _friends_.

 

And the illusion shatters, she flops to the ground of the orchard and sees the aghast looks on Jared, Connor, and Evan’s faces, having watched her be suspended in mid-air for several minutes, unable to help her.

 

She turns over and laughs. “When we get out of this,” she wheezes, recovering her breath, “I’m going to kiss her so hard.” 

 

——

They arrive, finally, at the base of the willow tree in true fashion, tripping over a root none of them saw, even looking at their feet as they were. Connor can’t help but remember that this is how it began for him. A trip, hitting his head, and nothing. That anger bubbles inside of him like it did when he found out that It had stolen his sister.

 

That root seemed to signal to them to stop here. _You have arrived_ , it seems to say. Connor stands, his palms grazed, beads of blood starting to run, the Willow towering over them, decrepit and sick.

 

And below it, a full creek, filled by the rain, but previously dried out. There is a drainpipe down there, he knows. And he gets a sinking feeling, looking down over this running stream. Zoe is down there, with It, in the drainpipe where Alana said that a boy died thirty years ago.

 

Where his sister might already have died.

 

He squares his shoulders and starts walking. That’s where she is, and he will be damned if he leaves her there. His parents deserve to have something to bury. He will not leave her there with It.

 

“Connor,” comes a voice, full of trepidation, from behind him.

 

“Evan,” he replies, harsher, meaner than he means to be.

 

“You’ll come back, right?” 

 

“I’m going to try. I’m going to try and bring her back, too. I’m not coming back without her.”

 

“I’ll come with you—”

 

“No!” He’s shouting, and he doesn’t mean to, but the pain he feels at the thought that Evan might get trapped down there as well, might not go on after this, terrified but stronger, it’s too much for him to handle. “Stay here, please. _Please_.”

 

Evan looks him in the eye, cautious, anxious, wanting, wishing, hoping, and this isn’t the first time Connor has wished he could see inside of Evan Hansen’s mind. He might never get a chance to ask him what he’s thinking now. And maybe it’s better this way. He nods to Evan, who nods back, and turns back to continue on his way, ignoring the mounting anxiety inside of him.

 

There is a slope, slippery with rain, that he stumbles down, mud splashing his black jeans, splattering them, and he half-thinks of the laundry he’ll have to do after this. And stops himself in his tracks. He’s not going to survive this. There will be no laundry to do. These mundane things don’t matter anymore. Only Zoe matters.

 

All that matters now is that the others survive.

 

And as though triggered by that thought, he seems to get lighter, less weighed down, and he feels slightly dizzy as Evan seems to appear in front of him again.

 

“Evan, I told you to stay back there—”

 

“Connor.”

 

There is something chilling to the quality of Evan’s voice, and Connor freezes, and looks at Evan, closely. He is disheveled, teary-eyed, bruised and battered, and the breath is pulled from Connor’s lungs. “Evan,” he breathes.

 

“Connor, why did you do this? Why did you do this to me? What did I do to deserve this?”

 

He takes a step towards Evan, who stumbles backwards, fearfully, and Connor feels something inside him pull painfully, seeing this boy so afraid of him. What had he done? He doesn’t remember hurting Evan. He has _never_ wanted to hurt Evan. He has never wanted to hurt anybody.

 

“Ev.”

 

“Don’t. You hurt me, Connor. You’re a monster, and all you do is hurt people. Why do you think you had no friends before this?”

 

And tears spring to Connor’s eyes.

 

“Evan, please, I don’t remember hurting you, I don’t know— I’m sorry—” 

 

“It’s too late to apologize now. The damage is done. I know what a monster you can be. You can’t trick me anymore.”

 

A sob is ripped from him, ripping at his throat. He looks down, unable to look at the fear in Evan’s eyes, and catches something. Evan’s arm is free of that scar, deep and silver. It’s not there, the skin unmarred and sunkissed. This isn’t Evan.

 

And finally, he hears past the ringing in his ears, to the sound of that awful laughter. This is one of Its tricks. It made him see something. Like the others. This is nothing like anything he has experienced at this point.

 

His tears stop in their tracks. “You’re not Evan. I’m coming for my sister, you sick son of a bitch." And he walks past the illusion, trying not to focus on how much it looks like Evan, how much even the image of Evan makes him want to pull him into a warm embrace, to feel safe in his arms again.

 

Instead, he walks towards that hole, filled with water to his knees, his socks becoming uncomfortably wet uncomfortably fast. The darkness is overwhelming, and he reminds himself that he has often dealt with darkness denser, more inescapable, than this. He can deal with this for Zoe.

 

His fingers trace over the rough concrete as he walks, reminding himself that things exist past what he can see. He can hear soft sobbing in the distance, echoing through the tunnel, and he is taken aback at the hope that sparks inside him, because that might just mean that Zoe is still alive.

 

That he won’t be carrying a body back to where it can be found. That noise, as heartbreaking as it is, ignites hope inside of him. Maybe they can make it out. 

 

——

The hands on her face are so cold but so, so comforting, and Zoe doesn’t even need to look to know those hands belong to her brother. He’s always been natured like a fucking icicle.

 

She knows it’s Connor there, here to rescue her, and in the back of her mind there’s a distant memory about a game with a princess and a knight, but Zoe pushes that away, instead opens her eyes and immediately scolds her brother for being so fucking _reckless_. “What are you doing here, Connor, it’s too dangerous,” she mumbles, unable to make her voice any louder than just above a whisper. Her head aches, and all of her limbs feel weighted down, too heavy for her body. There’s cotton in her mouth, and she wants to sleep, but there’s a small, nagging part of her that tells her she can’t do that, can’t go back to sleep yet, especially when Connor’s here. 

 

Connor just stares at her, the blue of his eyes so bright, that brown patch burning with an emotion Zoe can’t put a name to, and then he’s pulling her close, wrapping his arms around her in the warmest hug she’s ever received. Zoe can’t remember the last time they hugged like this. She can’t remember the last time they hugged at all. But she can remember just how much she’s missed these hugs. 

 

Her head throbs, and she murmurs against his shoulder, “You shouldn’t have come back for me. It’s not safe.” And as much as Zoe loves being in her big brother’s arms, as much as she loves him, she wants him to go, _needs_ him to go. Because there’s danger here, lurking in this orchard. It is out there. And Connor needs to get away from it, before it kills him. Zoe would rather die alone here than let anything happen to her brother. 

 

He might think he’s her protector, but what he doesn’t realize is that she’s spent the past thirteen years protecting him, really. She’s led him around the hallways when his vision disappeared. She’s turned down invitations to jazz band parties and soccer team hangouts to go home to be with her brother, even if he won’t let her in his room, because she knows he hates being alone for too long. She’s snarled at countless Amandas and Tiffanys and Brittanys and told them she never wanted to hear her brother’s name out of their overly-glossed mouths again. She’s stood up to their parents, pleaded with Larry to send Connor to therapy until her voice gave out, asked Cynthia to exchange yoga classes and book clubs for time spent with her son, who needed her way more than any perfectly-coiffed Cloverport soccer mom ever could.

 

Zoe protects her brother, because he doesn’t think he’s worth protecting. She protects her brother, because he thinks he needs to protect her from himself. He doesn’t realize that he isn’t the problem. The problem is a disease, or a demon, or whatever’s actually been taking his sight from him for thirteen years. The problem is their parents, borderline neglectful in their absence, desperate for the perfect children but unable to handle the reality of an imperfect son. The problem is society, the unspoken rules that have taught Connor he can’t cry if he wants to be a real man, the stigmas that make their father believe therapy is shameful, a last resort reserved only for the truly weak (and in his eyes, “weak” is not a word that gets associated with a Murphy child).

 

Connor is not the problem. But he believes he is. And so Zoe protects him.

 

And she’ll die doing that today, if she has to. Because that’s what it means to be a sister. 

 

But Connor just scoffs, pulls back from their hug and says, “What kind of knight would I be if I didn’t?” 

 

Zoe remembers their game, and smiles, and realizes she doesn’t have the words to respond to that. She can’t find them, even though she knows they’re in there somewhere, the million apologies she’s saved up over the years, the memories she’s wanted to share with her brother but has never had the courage to. There are a thousand different ways to say “ _I love you_ ” tucked underneath her tongue, so many words she’s kept stored away for thirteen years, and Zoe wants to let them out, wants to tell her brother everything, but — she doesn’t think she has it in her right now. 

 

And as Connor squeezes at her hand and smiles at her, Zoe knows she doesn’t need to tell him. Somewhere along the line, he’s figured it out for himself. 

 

And the thought of that makes her inexplicably happy. Even if they might be about to die.

 

——

Zoe has never been so happy to see a button-down shirt.

 

She breaks away from Connor to run to Alana, and the way the shorter girl wraps her arms around her and pulls her close makes it totally worth the killerheadache she’ll have soon. “You’re okay,” Alana breathes, and Zoe nods.

 

“I’m okay,” she repeats. 

 

And just like with Connor, there’s a million things she keeps tucked behind her lips, things she doesn’t say, because — 

 

Because if she says them right now, it’ll feel like a goodbye. And Zoe’s determined to not say any goodbyes tonight. 

 

They pull apart, but their fingers intertwine, and they walk over to the boys together, hand in hand. Connor is looking at Evan with a wistfulness in his eyes that breaks Zoe’s heart, and she knows they’ve got the same train of thought right now. Figuring out you love someone right before you might just die is the worst kind of pain.

 

She’s expecting Jared to crack a joke, but he doesn’t; instead, he gives her a small smile and says, “Glad you’re okay, Zoe.” 

 

Evan basically launches himself at her, hugs her so hard it actually hurts, and Zoe can’t help but laugh. “I-I’m so happy you’re safe, Zoe,” he murmurs, squeezing at her shoulders. “We were so worried.” 

 

Evan steps back, and in the process of hugging him, Zoe’s dropped Alana’s hand, and so now they’re all just standing there, looking at each other. There’s a steely kind of determination in Evan’s eyes, and as Zoe glances around, she realizes they all have that same look. Even her brother. _Especially_ her brother. 

 

“Let’s do this,” Connor finally speaks up. 

 

“Yeah,” Jared grins, but there’s a trace of fear behind that smile. “Let’s kick some demon ass.”

 

——

Jared is scared. He’d be an idiot not to be. He's trying to hide it, but he doesn't think he's doing a good job of it.

 

This thing — whatever It turns out to be — It is a monster. And if Jared is meant to die fighting it, if he is meant to be dead at the end of this, he’s sure that so is It.

 

The darkness descends so quickly, he has no time to call out to Evan and Alana. _It is here_ , he wants to say, _It is here, so beware._

 

Those words are not his own. No. Jared would never say something like that. 

 

Jared looks around. It is just darkness. He can’t even see his hands. Come to think of it, he can’t see anything…

 

“No,” Jared murmurs, lifting his hands to his eyes to see if it makes any difference. It doesn’t. “What the fuck.”

 

He’s panicking. Jared never fully understood Connor’s terror when it came to sudden blindness, but it seems like that’s come back to bite him in the ass. He can’t be panicking. He’s got to help them get Zoe out of here. They’ve got to pack some clothes and some food and get in a car and drive far, far away. They’ve got to get as far away from It as possible. He won’t let them get hurt again.

 

But he can’t move because he can’t see and he can’t escape.

 

He can’t be blind right now.

 

“Um, wrong fucking victim,” Jared calls, trying to sound annoyed, or like he doesn’t care, like he’s bored — but his voice shakes and he knows the illusion is shattered.

 

_“No, Jared,”_ Its voice tuts in his ear. Jared flinches away from it _. “Not the wrong victim. Exactly the_ right _victim.”_

 

Jared himself starts shaking. “What the fuck do you want? Like, seriously, what the fuck do you want from me? Don’t you think it’s enough that you’ve ruined my friends’ lives? What the fuck else could you possibly want?” 

 

_“You teenagers always have such a penchant for vulgarity,”_ It sighs _. “Jared, I am simply attempting to get you to see the truth, which is this: the world is better off without you. The others, you think they’re your friends, but are they, truly? Tell me, who came to your rescue in the bathroom last night? Who cleaned your wounds, bandaged your hands?”_ It pauses, as if for dramatic effect, lets the words sink in _. “Ah, that’s right — nobody came.”_

 

Jared can’t even deny it. It’s right. No one came. Zoe was with Alana. Evan and Connor were on the couch, together. And no one came for him. No one came to get him. He was just lying at the bottom of a tree, hoping despite the obvious, hoping that someone would find him.

 

They didn’t need him. They had each other, and they didn’t care. None of them asked what had happened to his hands, none of them had asked what happened to the mirror, none of them had asked why he’d fallen asleep in the stairwell.

 

Jared is just an extra, just the sidekick, just the comic relief.

 

Jared feels tears start slipping down his cheeks. He’s alone. He’s always been alone, and he always will be. Why had he ever been convinced otherwise? 

 

And then he remembers something, the night he’d told Evan what his insomnia was really caused by. How Evan had tried to help.

 

_“You can tell me,”_ _Evan says, taking Jared’s hands. “You can tr-trust me.”_

 

And Alana, at the first meeting, responding to the self-deprecating comment he’d used to lighten the mood. 

 

_“It is wrong,” Alana tells him firmly. “You’re worthy of every good thing that comes your way."_

 

And Connor, who had taken his wrist in hand and stopped him from walking out the door.

 

_“In the dark, with a powerful-slash-homicidal force beyond our control on the loose?” Connor asks, and shakes his head. “I think not.”_

 

Jared had admitted it then, too. How much he really relied on them.

 

_“I don’t know. I was just thinking about how we all knew each other, sort of, before this, and how we could’ve gotten to each other sooner.”_

 

Zoe bought him coffee. Connor made him stay, and took him out for burgers. Evan trusted him. Alana reassured him. Heidi patched him up and kissed him on the head.

 

_“It is wrong,”_ Alana says, again, in his head. “ _It is wrong_.”

 

“You’re wrong,” Jared hears himself say, as if in a dream.

 

_“What?”_  Is the response, and It sounds so taken aback that Jared has some hope for a second. It’s enough to push him to his feet and push away his fear.

 

“My friends care about me. They may not always be there, but they try.” He swallows the lump in his throat, wipes his face, and says, “And that’s more important than anything else.”

 

_“They don’t care—”_ It’s struggling, that much is obvious.

 

“I’ve believed that for too long. I let you convince me that I was unlovable. To the point where I nearly hurt myself because you told me to.” Jared takes a deep breath, reminding himself that he can do this. “No more. Got it? I’m done with you. They love me, and they won’t stop. So neither will I.”

 

There’s something ringing sharply in his ears, but when Jared blinks again, the blindness is gone, and he’s standing out in the rain again.

 

He smiles, even though he knows it’s not quite over. 

 

——

The hallucination is almost so real that Evan thinks this might have all been a big misunderstanding, a realistic nightmare. He’s standing in his living room. It’s storming. The lights are off.

 

“Hello?” he calls. His mother must be at work, helping people. She works so hard, and one day they’ll get out of this town he knows she hates. One day, she won’t have to work day and night to keep them afloat. One day, she won’t have to be scared that he’ll make a bad decision and leave her alone. 

 

“Evan?” Evan turns. There’s his mother. She looks different. He’s never seen her wear a dress before. It’s tan, and the skirt is ripped a little, falling just past her knees. Her curly blonde hair, the hair that looks like sunshine, like buttercups and daffodils, is pulled away from her face in a loose plait. In her hands, she holds a paper boat. 

 

_The S.S. Evan,_ it reads, on the side, in his father's chickenscratch.

 

Heidi holds it out in front of her. “It’s time,” she says. There’s something wrong with her voice. It’s never sounded that cold before. 

 

“Time for what?” Evan asks, taking the boat from her hands.

 

She smiles sadly, clasping her hands to her chest. The left hand is coated in dark blood. “Oh, Evan,” she says.

 

Thunder rumbles, the room flashes with lightning, and suddenly, Evan is standing in the street. He sputters as water drips into his mouth, still holding the boat. 

 

Ahead of him, only a few feet away, a figure in a yellow raincoat crouches by the storm drain. They reach up to push their glasses up their nose, and peer into the drain. He watches Jared reach into it.

 

“No!” Evan cries, but before he can do anything, a dark hand, with long jagged claws, reaches from the drain and rips into Jared’s arm, through the material of the raincoat, through his arm, and Jared doesn’t make a sound. Blood pools in the puddles of rain on the road, and Evan is trapped behind a glass wall.

 

Jared lies in the street, arm ripped off at the elbow, dead. The scene changes again.

 

This time, it’s Alana in the raincoat.

 

“Get away!” Evan screams, slamming his fists into the glass, the boat dropping from his hand. “Move away from it, you idiot!” 

 

Alana isn’t an idiot, but she, too, reaches into the drain, and ends up bloodstained and dead in the street, just like Jared. Why can’t anyone save them? Why can’t they hear him?

 

Zoe’s pale, innocent face smiles at the prospect of a balloon, and Evan aches all over. It’s like a car crash — he can’t look away, no matter how much he wants to. His throat aches as he screams for her to get away. She doesn’t so much as breathe as It slices through her skin like scissors through paper. Like she’s no more than a spiderweb in Its path.

 

Connor breaks him. Evan is soaked to the bone and shivering, but the fight returns to him as he sees that it’s Connor on the road this time.

 

“Please don’t!” Evan shouts. “Please! _Please_ , just run away!”

 

He wants Connor to hear him — of all of them, surely Connor would hear him. He looks so strange, wearing a yellow raincoat, hair tied back into a little ponytail at the base of his skull, flyaways pasted to his forehead. 

 

If it weren’t for the imminent danger, Evan would think he looks beautiful. He does. But the hand stretching into the gutter, sleeve slipping up his wrist, makes ice splinter down Evan’s spine, and the franticness to save him returns, stronger than before.

 

“ _Connor! Please!_ ” It’s too late.

 

He watches it all play out, for the fourth time.

 

“No!” Evan sobs, sliding to his knees against the invisible wall. Connor lies on his back, on the road, droplets of water running down his face, his blood much starker than the others’. He convulses, breathing unevenly, but he makes no noise. His hair comes loose of its hair tie, coiling into the puddle under his head.

 

Evan slams his fists against the wall again, and like shattering glass, the wall falls, and Evan scrambles over the road to get to Connor. “Fuck, fuck, oh fuck,” he whispers, pulling Connor’s head into his lap.

 

This close, he can hear the soft sobs ripping out of Connor’s raw throat. Evan now recognizes that they all screamed — he just couldn’t hear them, like they couldn’t hear him.

 

“Why didn’t you save me?” Connor whispers, and there’s something wrong with his voice.

 

Evan sobs and touches their foreheads together, bent over Connor like he can protect him from what has already hurt him. “I’m sorry,” he whispers. He can’t tell what’s rain and what’s tears. He pulls away, and Connor’s stopped moving. His dead eyes stare at the sky, unmoving, unblinking.

 

Evan scrambles away, feeling rain splash his khakis along with Connor’s blood. “Fuck, _fuck_ ,” he whispers. He hears yelling, far away, and turns to where the wall had been.

 

His parents stand in the rain, and his mom looks normal now, dressed in bootleg jeans and a brown leather jacket, hair half tied back with a pin. His father is dressed in a dress shirt and slacks. They’re arguing.

 

“Mom,” Evan croaks. 

 

“…all your fault!” Heidi cries, pushing her husband, whose hands are up in surrender.

 

“Mom, please, help me.” Evan looks back to Connor, but he’s disappeared. “Oh, shit, Connor?” 

 

He’s gone. Evan knows this, but as he looks around, he sees something in the storm drain. Evan crawls forward and looks down.

 

There, in the drain, in his little yellow raincoat, a popped red balloon on a string in one hand, a paper boat in the other, is Evan, seven years old, and dead.

 

Evan scrambles back, hands scraping raw on the asphalt of the road. He’s crying, he knows, because he keeps gasping for breath, and sobbing like a pathetic mess. “ _Mom_.” She’s gesturing to the storm drain, she can’t see Evan.

 

“It’s your fault that Evan’s dead! I want you to leave, right now, and I never want to see you, ever again!” She pushes Evan’s father, and Evan blinks and they’re gone.

 

Everything is. It’s just Evan, in the black.

 

Evan wraps his arms around his knees and buries his face in them.

 

Evan doesn’t know how long he sits alone, in the dark, arms around his knees, fat tears dripping down his face, off his chin, marking his pants. It could be hours. It could be seconds.

 

He doesn’t know anything.

 

All he knows is that he’s alone, and no one is coming for him. 

 

No one will ever come for him. It’s like he’s constantly lying under that tree, squeezing his eyes closed and counting to three, waiting for footsteps to echo in his ears, for someone to call his name and come running. For somebody to finally find him and take him home.

 

There is nothing but the dark, and himself, and he’d be an idiot to believe anything else.

 

_“Why didn’t you end it when you had the chance?”_

 

Evan flinches. He looks up, face wet, sobs in his throat.

 

There’s nothing to see — just darkness.

 

_“When you climbed that tree — why didn’t you throw yourself off? If you had, you wouldn’t be here, now.”_ It’s the pleasant voice that talked him into climbing that tree in the first place. Both times. When it happened, Evan just thought it was his conscience. Like his own little Jiminy Cricket that hated him. Like there was no Blue Fairy to magic him up some courage, some bravery _. “Your mother wouldn’t be worried about you. And your friends — well, are they even your friends? They haven’t come to get you, have they? You’d be better off dead.”_

 

“Th-that…” Evan hiccups and wipes his face with the sleeve of his hoodie. 

 

_“What?”_ It snarks, sounding triumphant through and through. It knows It’s won. It’s gloating. It’s celebrating _. “Lost for words? You’ve always been useless with speeches. Remember in sophomore year? You tried to give that speech about Daisy Buchanan? And everyone stared at you, because you’re a freak who doesn’t know how to speak.”_

 

“St-stop,” Evan says, voice broken, and more tears dribble down his face, because, he realizes, he believes It. That’s not right. He shouldn’t believe It. He should want to survive.For his mother, and Zoe, and Jared, and Alana. He should want to. But he feels so hopeless. Like the only thing his life is leading up to is the end.

 

There should be more.

 

_“Evan, you and I both know everyone would be happier without you.”_ The voice is so close, in his ear. _“You know, deep in your heart, that no one cares.”_

 

A sob travels up his throat. It tears out of his mouth as more of a scream, three words riding the wave of anger and sadness. “That’s not true!”

 

_“Found your voice, have you?”_ The voice sounds kind of annoyed, now, like it was planning on him just giving up, right then and there, not that he’d fight back. It’s not like he gave it any reason to believe otherwise. He’s been a coward up until this moment.

 

“Stop it. I don’t believe you. You’re wrong.” Something bitter stains his tongue and layers his mouth. Evan is very aware that he’s come here to die. Very aware that he may die in this darkness, only to be found, who knows when, by who knows who. Evan’s willing to fight to the end, though. “My friends love me. My mom loves me. If that wasn't true, I would be dead by now. That has nothing to do with you. Don’t give yourself so much credit.”

 

_“You think so?”_ Sneers the voice, so self-assured, and how long has it been since he first heard It? How long has he loathed the very sound of It?

 

“I know so,” Evan retorts, and wipes his nose on his sleeve. “I may be a coward, but I’m not an idiot, no mater how much you like to try and convince me that I am.”

 

_“Of course. Doesn’t change that you’re alone right now. No one’s coming for you.”_

 

Evan shakes his head. He can’t let It in. He has to fight. No matter how long it takes for him to escape, or for someone to help him. “I think you’re wrong. I think you’re just playing with my head.”

 

_“Wouldn’t you be better off dead?”_ And how tempting that would have been a month or two ago. Now the very thought makes his skin crawl. _“Alone, yes, but no one to worry about, and no one to worry about you.”_

 

“I’d rather them be worried about me than be grieving me,” Evan retorts, and sniffs, before pushing himself to his unsteady feet. He wobbles in his attempt to find balance and assumes he looks a lot like a baby giraffe, trying to find its footing.

 

_“You’re living in constant fear,”_ It says.

 

“That may be so — I might be scared out of my mind right now.” Evan’s willing to admit all of this. It has never made him feel embarrassed. Or, rather, It has, and he’s become immune to Its taunts and Its judging. At this point, the poison words mean nothing. “But, here’s the thing. I’m not scared of you anymore.” 

 

_“You’re lying,”_ It accuses, voice harsh and testing. It isn’t sure. Evan smiles, thumbing the hem of his hoodie.

 

“So what?” Evan cries, throwing his hands up. “It’s okay to lie. Lying makes me human. And you know what humans do with a lie? You know what?”

 

_“What.”_ It’s humoring him. But that’s okay. That means It’s listening to him.

 

“We believe them. You’ll never scare me, not ever, because you’re just as pathetic as a poppedballoon. We’re going to best you, we’re going to live, and no one else will ever have to suffer the way we did. And you know what else humans do?” He’s sure, at this point, that It is tired of him talking, but It doesn’t try to speak over him. Lets him rant. It probably thinks he’s just stalling. And maybe he is. “We make promises, and sometimes we break them, but a lot of the time we keep them. This will end, one way or the other, and there’s nothing you can do about it.”

 

_“You will die tonight,”_ It says, but there’s a tremor to the tenor of Its voice.

 

“Water is wet, what else is new?” Evan grinds out in true anger. He didn’t know he was angry, had never known. Now that he thought about it, of course he’s angry. “You know what really pisses me off?”

 

_“Oh, do tell me—”_ It starts to say, but Evan cuts It off.

 

“You involved my mother in this,” Evan hisses, and yes, that’s true hatred laid deep in him. It weighs him down, that hatred, he wants It dead so he doesn’t have to bear the weight of that on his shoulders.

 

_“Your mother involved herself,”_ It spits back.

 

“You're an evil bastard and I hope you burn in hell. I’m not scared anymore, or did you not get the memo? I’m not scared, I’m just fucking angry. I would’ve been okay if it was just me — hell, I would’ve been okay if you’d fucking killed me that day, but the fact that you did something, the fact that she had a reason to look that scared, the fact that she had a story to tell at that table — that pisses me off to no end.” Evan’s shouting now. When did he start shouting? He doesn’t care. “Fuck with my head for all you want, I don’t care, but using my mother? My friends. No. I won’t let this happen anymore.”

 

_“You are weak, you have no power, you are_ alone, _your friends all think it would be better if you died.”_ Its voice sounds desperate now, like It’s not even trying to convince him, anymore, just Itself. And that’s the in Evan needs.

 

“I let myself believe that. I’ll give you credit for that one. It’s not true, though. That’s the thing. I know they’d miss me. I _know_ they would.” Evan doesn’t know where to look, because the voice is coming from all around, but it doesn’t really matter, because the sentiment is there. “You can fuck off with this hallucination, because it doesn’t work on me anymore. I’m not scared.”

 

The vision shatters like glass. And there he is, standing where he had been when Connor climbed into the drainpipe, on his own, in the orchard, right beside the gnarled and bone-white willow tree. 

 

He is not alone. Jared and Alana are standing a little ways away. Connor is on his knees on the bank of the overflowing creek. And there’s Zoe, slumped on her side, behind floating, glowing yellow orbs. Evan understands immediately, and stumbles backwards.

 

The small victory his heart had been beating for falls away in the starkness of the reality that this battle is far from over. 

 

Evan breathes in, shakily, trying to build up the courage he’ll need for this.

 

He’s got to live, he knows this now. He made a promise. He’s going to live.

 

It is going to die.

 

Evan always keeps his promises. 

 

——

Bright yellow light flashes in her sight, temporarily blinding her, and Zoe’s thrown backward, elbows skidding against the dirt, as something pins her down. 

 

The light is so bright that she can’t see, and she suddenly understands how it feels to be her brother, because not having her vision for even a few seconds is sending her into a full-blown panic, fingers digging into the grass to ground her, prove to her that she’s still here. 

 

In the back of her mind, the yellow of the light reminds her of the yellow eyes Jared describes as plaguing his nightmares. 

 

The yellow dims, and her sight flickers back, but she’s still trapped, can feel something weighing her down, like shackles on her wrists and feet. Her Converse are planted firmly in the ground, and Zoe’s heart sinks as she realizes she’s not going anywhere. Six yellow orbs float in front of her, and she wonders if they’re what’s holding her back (the voice in her head whispers _yes_ ). The orbs are translucent, and she can see through them; just up ahead, she can spot Alana, fists clenched at her sides and mouth moving rapidly, like she’s talking to someone. Jared’s a couple feet to her right, and further in the distance, she can just make out two blurry figures that she’s pretty sure are Connor and Evan.

 

_Connor._ Fuck. She has to get to him, has to help him out. 

 

As if the orbs have read her mind, the weight around her wrists disappears, and Zoe manages to struggle to her feet, head pounding with the effort. Then she takes a step forward — or tries to, at least, but to no avail. Her feet won’t budge; the orbs won’t allow her to move. 

 

It’s going to make her stand there and watch, Zoe thinks, chest tightening with anxiety. It’s going to make her stand and watch the people she cares about most in this world die violent, awful deaths, and It’s going to laugh at her before It kills her, too. 

 

It is Alana and the bathroom all over again, and she has never felt so helpless.

 

She glances down at her shaking hands. Her fingers are stained brown with dirt, mud caked under her nails, and there’s a random cut across her left palm. It looks pretty deep, actually, and it’s dripping blood onto the grass, but her possible need for stitches is definitely not at the top of Zoe’s list of worries right now. 

 

Then the tingling starts, and Zoe forgets how to breathe, because she knows this tingling. It’s the same tingling she always gets, the signal of the start of yet another attack, yet another horrible instance where she’ll have to watch her fingers disappear.

 

Sure enough, the skin of her right pointer finger begins to peel back, her nine other fingers quickly following suit, delicate networks of tendons and nerves exposed to the world. Zoe wants to scream, but it’s like she doesn’t remember how to; the scream gets stuck in her throat. 

 

It is different this time, though, because the pain feels so _real_. It’s sharper than ever, burning and slashing and clawing at her, like her hands are on fire. It’s terrifying (though what about this situation isn’t?). 

 

_You’ll never win, Zoe,_ a voice, calm and cool and firm, whispers in her ear. _You know you can never beat me. Just give up. Make it easy for you and your friends. The harder you fight, the harder you’ll fall. But we all float down here, don’t worry._

 

She doesn’t want to give up. She’s spent sixteen years fighting from day one, spent thirteen years fighting to save her brother, and she’s not going to give up that easily. She can’t let him down like that, can’t let _herself_ down like that.

 

But the voice has settled in her ear, and she can feel its presence like a snake curling around her shoulder, and she’s in pure agony from the white-hot pain in her hands, and she can feel her grip on reality slipping, bit by bit.

 

She tears her gaze from her hands and looks up and beyond the orbs, over to where Alana is standing. Just seeing the other girl helps to ground her a little, and Zoe dares to let out a small sigh of relief, even though her fingers are nearly completely disintegrated by now. 

 

And then the sky seems to tilt, and Zoe wobbles, nearly falls, as the orchard morphs around her, changes into more familiar surroundings.

 

_Too_ familiar surroundings.

 

She’s in a room, a room with gray walls and dark furniture, a room with a plain blue comforter on the bed, a room with a trash can full of crumpled notebook pages and empty orange pill bottles. There’s a pair of big black headphones on the desk.

 

This room is Connor’s.

 

Zoe can hardly breathe past the lump in her throat as the voice starts up again. _Now, now, it’s alright, Zoe, don’t pass out on me,_ it coos, sickeningly sweet. _I’m just trying to help you. But you need to see this. This is your future. This is what you will have created for yourself if you don’t give in._

 

There’s something in the edge of her vision, a lump just beyond the bed, but Zoe isn’t sure it’s something she wants to see.

 

Doesn’t matter. The orbs are gone, and something compels her to step forward, to move towards the bed. Closer and closer to the lump, until it’s not a lump anymore. It’s a person.

 

It’s her brother. Face-down and unresponsive. There’s an empty pill bottle next to him, just like the ones in the trash, except the label on this one isn’t for his epilepsy meds. This label reads “Xanax”, and the prescription isn’t even made out to Connor — it’s a prescription for Evan Hansen. 

 

Zoe tries to say his name, tries to reach down and shake him awake, but It won’t let her move or speak or anything. It forces her to simply stand there and stare at her brother’s limp, unmoving form.

 

Then the scenery changes again. Zoe is enveloped by the bright white of the second-floor bathroom in her house, the one her mother redecorated just last year to give it a “better aura” because the new book she’d just read said that white was a cleansing color. 

 

Except there’s scarlet marring the white. There’s scarlet everywhere, smears of it across the sink, spatters of it on the tiled floor, _puddles_ of it around Zoe’s feet. It turns her white Converse dark red.

 

She looks past her feet. 

 

There are rivers of scarlet running down her brother’s arms. 

 

And he is so pale. Too pale.

 

There are tears beading in the corners of her eyes, but they don’t fall. Like the rest of her, they’re frozen. Stuck.

 

It brings her back to Connor’s bedroom, but there’s not a body on the floor this time. _This is the method he’ll settle on,_ the voice informs her. _Google will tell him it’s more effective than the other two._

 

But Zoe doesn’t see a body, doesn’t know what method It is talking about.

 

There’s a pause. And then, the voice: _Look up, Zoe._

 

She can’t stop herself from doing as it says. She looks up.

 

There, hanging from the exposed support beam in his ceiling, is her brother. He is pale and cold and as dead as before, but his expression is different this time.

 

His eyes look scared, the fear in them palpable.

 

And then, Zoe’s gaze drifts downwards, and what she sees there breaks her.

 

There are claw marks on his neck. Like he was trying to get the noose off. Like he was trying to survive.

 

This time, It lets her scream, and the wail tears out of her throat, the sound of pure agony. She sinks to her knees, sobbing, the tears flowing freely now, but she can’t stop looking at Connor. She can’t stop screaming, either, even though the noises coming from her lips at this point are really nothing more than gibberish, broken cries of “ _Connor_ ” and “ _No_ ” and “ _Why?_ ”. 

 

She’s screaming at herself internally, too. _How could you not have seen this coming, Zoe, how dumb are you? You knew he’d been pulling away, you knew he’d distanced himself, you knew he needed help, he’s_ eighteen _, dammit, you could’ve taken him somewhere so he could get himself some help. Why the fuck didn’t you try harder? Why didn’t you tell the bullies to fuck off, why didn’t you eat lunch with him, why didn’t you make him come to a party with you or rope him into going to homecoming or get him to do any of a million things that normal teenagers do? Why did you let him die?_

 

It’s her fault. She knows it’s her fault. There were so many things she should’ve said, could’ve said, _would’ve_ said if she’d known it might be the last time she could say them. Things like, _You’re a good brother, I know you’re not perfect but you’re trying and that’s what matters_ , and _I’m proud of you_ , and _You’re not a burden_.

 

Most of all, she wishes she’d said _I love you_. 

 

And suddenly, she’s so tired. She just wants it to be over with. It’s right, she should just give in, make it easier on everyone. If she comes back alive and he doesn’t, their parents are just going to forever blame her, anyway. She will never be perfect enough for them. She will never fill the holes in their hearts. But if she gives in, here and now, they can sell the house, leave this shitty town, buy a shabby-chic cottage on Martha’s Vineyard like they’ve always wanted.

 

There won’t be any pain anymore. Everyone will be happy.

 

She feels a tugging from deep within, somewhere in the darkest recesses of her soul, and she almost gives in to the pull. 

 

But she’s still looking at Connor’s eyes, and as she does so, she realizes something.

 

These are not Connor’s eyes. These are not the eyes of the boy she grew up with. They’re a vivid shade of blue that the Murphy family is famous for, sure, but. They’re missing something.

 

Where’s that spot of brown in his right eye? The spot she used to tease him for when they were little, because she’d actually always been jealous of it, cuz of course _Connor_ got the cool eyes and not her — where’d that go? 

 

Holy shit.

 

That’s not Connor.

 

Connor’s not dead. And the “future” that It is showing her, that can’t be real, because that’s not Connor. Connor’s not going to die. 

 

At least, not if Zoe has anything to say about it.

 

She struggles to her feet, and she turns away from the body that looks like Connor but isn’t Connor.

 

And she speaks.

 

“You’re a liar,” she says slowly. “You’re a fucking liar. That’s not Connor. That will _never_ be Connor. And I know it won’t be because—” She takes a deep breath, attempts to steady her racing heart. She’s angry, so fucking angry, this revelation having flipped some sort of switch inside her, and she wishes there were some sort of physical manifestation of It, something she could punch and scratch and _hurt_ , something she could lock away forever and live in peace knowing it’d never come out.

 

But It is all in her mind, something she can’t get her hands on. And while that’s much worse to deal with, it _is_ easier to shout at, since It can’t just up and knock her lights out to get her to shut up.

 

“It’s always been Connor and me, since the moment I was born,” she continues, calmer this time, but louder. Firmer. _Certain_. “He’s not going to leave me, and I’m not going to leave him. Ever. So _fuck_ you.”

 

Her last words to It are vulgar and crude and definitely not the stuff of superhero stories or princess-and-knight rescue missions, but they do the trick.

 

The vision falls to pieces before her eyes, and she’s back on her knees in the orchard before she even has time to blink. 

 

The orbs are gone, and Connor and Evan are here now, she can see them approaching. She’s panting, for some reason, sucking in every breath like it’s her last one, and her entire body is shaking and the cut on her palm is bleeding pretty badly, but she manages to raise a (perfectly intact) hand and wave hello to the boys as they get closer.

 

Connor breaks into a sprint at that. He’s by her side in seconds, tugs her into his arms and doesn’t let go. Her face is pressed against his sweatshirt, he’s so much fucking taller than her, and he smells like cigarettes and woodsy cologne and sweat, but that’s okay. Right now, he smells like home.

 

She waits until they’ve finally pulled away to say what she should’ve been saying for thirteen years. 

 

“I love you.” 

 

And normally, as part of her requisite little sister duties, Zoe would tease him for the tears that fill his eyes when she says that, would call him out on his teddy-bear heart when he repeats it back and presses a kiss to the top of her head. 

 

But this time, she lets it slide.

 

There’ll be plenty more “ _I love you”_ s to tease him about.

 

She’ll make sure of that.

 

——

This force, this thing, is so far beyond her control, so beyond her power, Alana cannot believe she ever thought that following a strict regime would protect her from It. It had been playing with her from the start, making her think she was in control, because control was what she craved most. It had lulled her into a false sense of security, and Alana is furious.

 

She is so mad, she wants to beat this thing with her fists, wants to scream, and yell, she feels so used. But it seems unreachable now. Because the thing is simply blinding now, no such physical form could hold it. It is a creature, and she knows it is not of this world, knows it cannot be.

 

She has never met a creature made of light, but considering what this one has done to her, and to her friends, she can safely say she never wants to meet one again.

 

She sees Zoe, on the ground, by the tree, her palm is bleeding, and she seems to be writhing, and Alana wants to hold her, and soothe her, the way Zoe had done for her just yesterday. But between her, and the girl she very nearly loves, is this thing, this pulsating, seemingly organic ball of orange light.

  

It is holding her back, is making her so afraid to move, making her so afraid to feel.

 

It seems like the blink of an eye, or maybe an eternity, but all of a sudden, It becomes brighter, angrier, It pulsates faster, and it makes her feel sick to look at it, but she can’t look away. It’s something akin to watching a train wreck. Without a moment’s warning, the booming, usually-calm voice of illusions, of the clown as she now knows, is in her ears.

 

None of the others flinch the way she does. Which means, Alana realises, It is addressing her, alone.

  
   
“You all seem so sure you can beat me, but I have spent years preparing you all for the slaughter. You have spent mere weeks researching how to end me. And don’t think I haven’t been watching. You have come nowhere near being able to kill me. You’re all so small, so insignificant, so stupid and fragile. I will enjoy destroying each and every one of you like the broken playthings you are.”

  
   
And she shudders, it seems to be the only thing her body will do.

——

Jared is aware of the yellow orbs. Jared is aware of Alana, his arms wrapped around her waist to keep her from running headlong into the aforementioned orbs, her hands scrabbling and clawing at his arms, begging him to let her go. He is aware of Connor and Evan, standing beside each other, staring the way he is, at what is visible of Zoe. He is more than aware of Zoe. She is on her knees, face in her hands, as she screams and sobs, only a few words audible.

 

Jared can hardly breathe as Zoe’s sobs quiet, and then the light fades. He releases Alana, who isn’t too far behind Evan and Connor, and they rush for Zoe’s slumped form.

 

Something is wrong. Jared knows that much. It wouldn’t give up so easily.

 

He’s proven right, only a few moments later.

 

Something fuzzy-sounding mutes everything else, in his ears, leaving only static to be heard. Jared watches the others look around in confusion, obviously more easily convinced of defeat than him.

 

The static becomes ringing, until it’s piercing, and Jared is forced to his knees by some invisible force, hands pushed behind his back, wrists crossed over each other and pressed into the small of his back. Jared didn’t put them there. He wants to put his hands over his ears.

 

One glance shows him the others’ fates are the same.

 

_“Are you so idiotic? You think some improvised speeches on friendship and love and bravery will be enough to end me? I had expected so much better,”_ It snarls, piercing their ears. Jared cannot hear anything but It, but a glance around tells him that they’re all screaming in pain _. “I am, however, willing to draw this out, somewhat. What do you say we play a little game?”_

 

The static retreats and Jared swallows the rest of his scream. All around him is heavy breathing and soft whimpers of pain, and then, a breathless yell of, “Really?” It’s Zoe. Of course it’s Zoe.

 

_“Fantastic, a volunteer. You never could keep your mouth closed, could you, Zoe?”_ Her body goes flying up into the air, about fifty feet above their heads, into the branches of the willow tree.

 

“Put her the fuck down!” Connor cries, and then yells in pain, falling forward into the grass, hands held behind his back with a pressure that looks painful.

 

_“The Murphys in general,”_ It muses. _“Large mouths, no brains. I could drop her if you’d like.”_

 

Jared can’t stand to see them in pain. He turns back to where the yellow orbs have begun glowing, again, on the bank of the muddy creek. “Just tell us what the fucking game is!” Jared shouts. If it means that It will stop hurting them, Jared will playing fucking _Jumanji_.

 

_“The game is a riddle. You must choose one of seven bottles for Zoe to drink from.”_ The aforementioned bottles appear on the grass in the halfway point between their kneeling forms and It. _“Only one of them will help you succeed. So, the odds are not in your favor.”_

 

Jared frowns. “Is that it?” he asks. Alana hasn’t taken her eyes off Zoe, watching as if she can keep her from falling by sheer force of will.

 

_“Perhaps the riddle will show you the_ gravity _of your situation.”_  There's the grating sound of branches snapping in their ears, and Zoe drops half a foot before getting caught by the branches directly below. Alana shrieks, and Connor lets out a pained moan.

 

“So we’re joking now?” There are tears in Connor’s voice. He’s obviously terrified for Zoe. There are tears trailing down his dirt-smeared face, making tracks in the brown. Evan shuffles towards him, on his knees, gritting his teeth in obvious pain, until he’s beside him, wrists pressed against the small of his back. “Are you fucking serious?”

 

It’s clear that Jared is the only one who can focus right now, even if he’s distracted by Connor jerking in sporadic agony on the ground and Zoe, motionless, in the tree. "Lay the riddle on me,” he says, throat sore already. 

 

_“Why am I not surprised that it’s you, Jared?”_ It asks him in an almost fond tone, and the very thought makes him shudder. _“'Danger lies before you, while safety lies behind, two of us will help you, whichever you would find—'”_

 

“Wait a fucking second!” Jared yells, and It stops. “Are you quoting _Harry fucking Potter and the Philosopher’s fucking Stone?_ You’ve been here since - what? The dawn of time? - and you can’t come up with anything more original than JK Rowling in her fledgling writer stage? You know that’s essentially plagiarism, right?”

 

Jared looks around at the others to see if they’re as amused as him, and they’re all staring at him with aghast expressions on their faces. Even Connor, who’s struggled back to his knees. Jared frowns. “Guys, I know intense shit is happening, but this is actually fucking hilarious.”

 

“If you say so, but you’re the nerd who recognized a _Harry Potter_ quote two sentences in,” Evan murmurs beside him, and it’s almost like old times, before life became a waking nightmare and he took more time out of his day hurting Evan than helping him. 

 

The pressure on Jared’s wrists and shoulders dissipates, and he gets back to his feet, rubbing his wrists as blood returns to them. Evan stays on the ground with Connor, who’s slumped back onto the grass. “You know I’m a _Harry Potter_ nerd,” he shrugs, allowing a bit of a smirk to rise on his lips, even though he’s too aware of how exhausted Connor is.

 

“Jared, my fucking sister's life is on the line; try to keep your shit together.” Connor’s voice shakes as he says it. Jared sobers, quickly.

 

“Right,” he agrees. “So, we have to solve the riddle to save Zoe. Um, continue.”

 

_“'Danger lies before you, while safety lies behind, two of us will help you, whichever you would find, one among us seven will let you move ahead, another will transport the drinker back instead, two among our number hold only nettle wine, three of us are killers, waiting hidden in line. Choose, unless you wish to stay here for evermore, to help you in your choice, we give you these clues four: first, however slyly the poison tries to hide, you will always find some on nettle wine’s left side; second, different are those who stand at either end, but if you would move onwards, neither is your friend; third, as you see clearly, all are different size, neither dwarf nor giant holds death in their insides; fourth, the second left and the second on the right are twins once you taste them, though different at first sight.'"_

 

“Okay, okay, okay, okay.” Jared breathes in, slowly, through his nose and puffs out his cheeks, trying to remember how smart he’d felt in the fourth grade for figuring the riddle out.

 

“Do you know how to do this?” Alana asks, appearing beside him with bitten lips and frightened eyes.

 

“Of course I know how to do this,” Jared all but scoffs, trying to sound more confident than he really is. Placebo effect, he hopes. “The only book I read in the fourth grade was _Philosopher’s Stone_. I could quote large sections, word for word, from memory. I can do this.”

 

“I’m gonna check Google,” she tells him, pulling out her phone and unlocking it. “As a safety net.”

 

“A safety net?” Jared gives her phone a worried look before peering over to Evan and Connor, a little ways away. Evan sports the same expression that Jared suspects is on his own face. “Do you really have such little faith in me?”

 

“Alana, you probably shouldn’t do that,” Evan says to her, but Alana’s not listening. She has Google up, and she’s typing—

 

There’s a crashing noise, and Jared sees sparks fly, far away, over the top of the trees, and the loudest noise he’s ever heard sounds as the reception towers topple. Alana drops her phone. “Okay, we’re not doing that,” she says. 

 

“Good idea,” Connor says through gritted teeth.

 

Alana’s inquiry seems too casual for their dire state. “Is nettle wine even a real thing?”

 

“I think you’ll find it is,” Evan responds. 

 

“Alana, I need you to help me,” Jared calls from where he’s now kneeling, in front of the collection of bottles.

 

“With what?” she asks him, dropping to her knees beside him.

 

“The riddle,” he says, gesturing to the bottles and forcing himself not to look up at Zoe again. “I can’t do this on my own.”

 

“I thought you were the one with extensive _Harry Potter_ trivia knowledge?” Alana teases, giving each bottle a cursory look.

 

“Right, Alana, because I’m gonna learn an entire riddle and its answer by heart for funsies.” Sarcasm comes naturally to him in times of trouble. Were it any other time, Jared suspects she’d laugh.

 

“Excuse me for trusting your geeknitude,” she says instead.

 

“Guys, please, stay focused,” calls Connor, and Evan shushes him, saying something about not straining himself.

 

“Right, okay,” Jared says, refocusing. “So… the tall bottle isn’t poison, and since it’s a twin, and the only other matching potions or whatever are nettle wine, that must make it nettle wine. So that one and… the one right before the end on the left is nettle wine, also.” Jared takes the tall black bottle and the tall red bottle, discarding them behind him. “Okay, and on nettle wine’s left is always poison, so, these two,” he takes the stout green bottle and the clear rounded one and tosses them across the grass, inEvan and Connor’s general direction, “are poison.”

 

“That leaves three,” Alana continues. “If the ones at each end are different, the clear one was poison, and both wines have been found, that means this one sends you back.” She picks up the rounded purple bottle and discards it beside her feet.

 

There are two bottles left. A small blue one and a tall yellow one. “Right. And since the tiny bottle isn’t poison, as per the riddle, it’s the safe one, and the yellow one is the last poison.” 

 

“Alright.” Alana scoops up the blue bottle, knocking the yellow one over, and hurrying over to the orbs. “Serve her this one.”

 

Alana places the bottle in front of the orbs and then backs away, quickly, her shoulder thumping into Jared’s chest as he stands again. It hurts, but he stays silent, watching It travel up to where Zoe lies in the tree, still as a corpse.

 

They watch in tense silence as the liquid from the bottle is poured into Zoe’s mouth.

 

The bottle goes flying onto the ground and smashes as a scream of rage sends them all to the ground again. All the bottles explode.

 

Evan throws his body over Connor’s to take the brunt of the glass flying at them, and Alana and Jared huddle on the ground as Alana shrieks. There’s a slice on the back of her hand. 

 

Jared can only assume, by the hot anger radiating from the orbs and the glass, that they were right.

 

That would almost make him smile, if he wasn’t so terrified. 

 

——

_“The Battle of Wits was nothing. You are all foolish if you think I’m going to let a meal I have waited for thirty years to devour slip away from me now. You may have chosen correctly, but this little girl will be the first to die.”_

 

There is a sickening crunch, a snap, and most repulsive, a ripping noise, and Zoe’s arm is at an odd angle, the bone sticking out from the flesh, and Connor hears Alana scream, and watches Zoe’s body writhe. And he cannot move for the fear that he cannot save his sister. Cannot save her from the grasp of this creature.

 

Jared’s arms are around Alana as the wind whips around them, and the rain falls faster than ever, and lightning hits a ride many miles over, and he thinks back to watching Zoe toddle around after him, wanting to catch him, giggling, reaching out, so happy to be with him. He wants to reach out to her, wants to take her in his arms, and never let anyone or anything hurt her again, hide her away from the rest of the world. This is his little sister, writhing, crying out, reaching out, and he reaches out for her.

 

And his heart drops as she does. She must be thirty, forty feet up in the tree where It has placed her, and rain is falling in his eyes as he runs to catch her, or soften her fall. She cannot die tonight. He swore he would protect her, and he will, to the ends of the earth. He has spent enough years letting his sister get hurt.

 

He grunts, and is knocked to the ground, but Zoe — Zoe is safe, is here, and he draws her close.

 

“It won’t hurt you again,” he whispers to her. “I love you. It’s my turn to save you.”

 

He lays her out the ground gently, so she’s comfortable, and he thinks he sees her arm twitch, thinks he sees her reaching out to him, and he tears his eyes away. And now he will probably die for his sister. For his friends. For the boy who might have been the love of his life if he’d had a life long enough to love someone.

 

He looks up, and meets Evan’s eyes, and there is a short, bittersweet moment when he considers running to him, holding him, kissing him one last time. But Connor knows that if he does that, he will never want to leave, he will never do what he has to. He nods to Evan, his wet hair plastered to his face, and the rain masks the tears that are slipping down his face.

 

“Hey!” he screams at the sky, at this thing, and the orange lights are back, blinding, and repulsive in nature.

 

_“Ah, you. My first. So broken, so small. You think you can defeat me?”_

 

“I know I can defeat you,” and he is impulsive. He doesn’t know what he’s doing. But he’s getting cockier. “I could do it with my eyes closed!” 

 

That laughter, cold and mocking, chills him more than the rain. He knows he has made a mistake. He feels sick.

 

_“With your eyes closed? Why not blind?”_ And the light is gone, and the lightning is gone, and nothing is real. He’s stumbling, and It is laughing louder than It ever has before, and he’s so, so frightened. Someone is running towards him, he can hear the squelching of mud under their feet. They take his arm, and he shakes them off.

 

“Go and be with Zoe,” he says.

 

“Connor…” And oh god, it’s Evan, and his chest tightens, and he wants to bring him close and wait this out, wait until his vision has come back, and then kiss any trace of worry from Evan’s face. But he can’t. Not tonight. There is no waiting this out. Tonight, it’s do or die. And he is more than willing to do either.

 

“Please, Evan!” He has never sounded more desperate, and he resists the urge to cling to Evan and never let go. 

 

Evan’s warm breath is on his cheek, and then his warmer lips, and Connor sobs, and runs forward, without knowing where he’s going, or why, but he will be frozen if he stays with Evan. He hits something solid, and he thinks it must be Jared or Alana.

 

But it’s warm, and it’s moving, pulsating, shifting, moving, and he feels sick. And he reaches past, and it stretches and it gives, and that layer breaks away, and his hand is sticky, disgusting, and he wants to throw up.

 

And he is propelled backwards, like a reflex, and the laugh in his ears is more like a scream, and It is scared. And Connor is more determined than ever.

 

_“You are pathetic,”_ the voice hisses, and it sounds defensive, scared, and Connor knows he’s done something right. _“Worthless. Minuscule Like an infant. I have been here for millennia, since this world was born, you know nothing!”_

 

“I know something. I know you’re scared. Because what I did, what I did was right, was damn close to killing you. And you’re scared I’ll do it again, and succeed this time. I know you stopped thirteen years of my life from being anything but filled with fear. I know you instilled that same fear in my baby sister. And one thing I know now, after years and years of being the victim, is that _you don’t fuck with the Murphys_!” 

 

And his dad would be proud of the way he runs aimlessly at the beast, his vision still gone, and Connor thinks that it may never return, or that maybe he’ll die in this process, but he’s already doing it, plunging his hand through that thin filmy layer, plunging his hand through till he finds something burning hot, and solid and beating, and squeezes with all his might.

 

The world explodes into light, and his flesh is burning, and he is definitely going to die, but he can see, and he can see his friends lit up brilliantly by this supernova of a destruction, and before his vision goes black again, he is glad to have seen them one last time.

 

——

She hits the ground so hard she sees stars, but not the Sharpie kind. The _you’re-probably-going-to-die-from-this_ kind.

 

It’s funny, because as she falls out of the tree, she thinks about Evan. She suddenly remembers the cast he had last year, and how someone in their Spanish class had told her he got it from falling out of a tree. Crazy that now two of their school’s students will have been maimed by the same thing. 

 

She blacks out for a couple seconds, but when she comes to, arm numb and head throbbing, Connor’s face is hovering over hers. He’s carrying her, laying her on the ground.

 

There’s an expression on his face that she doesn’t like. It looks something like acceptance, and Zoe knows what he’s trying to accept.

 

His death.

 

Like _hell_ is she going to accept that. 

 

“Connor — ” she tries to say, but she can’t get her words out; they’re all stuck in her mouth. Leave it to her to keep things stored up for thirteen years and then not be able to say them when she really wants to. 

 

“It won’t hurt you again,” he murmurs. “I love you. It’s my turn to save you.”

 

_No,_ every cell in Zoe’s body is screaming. _No no no, you don’t_ need _to save me, Connor, I already saved you, it’s okay, please don’t die for me, fuck_ please _—_

 

She wants to reach for him, but her mangled arm won’t cooperate and only twitches at best. 

 

And it’s just like what It showed her, because she has to watch her brother walk away, and she can’t even move.

 

She has to watch him walk to his death, and she can’t even attempt to stop him.

 

——

He wakes to someone shaking his arm, shaking him, shouting, worried. He doesn’t want to wake up, he wants to stay like this — peaceful, calm. He feels like he is floating — and he is awake now, the thought of floating making him want to retch.

 

That was what It always said — _we all float down here_ — and Connor wants to move, but his body protests.

 

“Connor, please wake up,” says that voice, not shouting anymore, close to his ear, and so familiar and soothing. “I need you here. Please don’t leave me.”

 

Zoe, his baby sister, the one he swore to always protect, she’s alive as well, and though her voice sounds pained, and labored, and shaky, she’s there, right there, and alive, and he’s succeeded at something, finally. He fights the weight of his eyelids, and Zoe is sitting next to him, tears in her eyes, cradling an arm to her chest, sitting in the wet, somehow greener grass.

 

He fights his way up from the position he’s in. A position he doesn’t remember settling into. He is stiff, and everything hurts, and he just knows he will be covered head to toe in bruises tomorrow. Even so, he pulls Zoe in for a hug, gentle, and careful of her arm.

 

“I can’t believe you tried to leave us all alone,” she murmurs.

 

“I never will again,” he promises, and that’s a promise he intends to keep, because for the first time in years, he has something to live for: the prospect of a less scary world, the prospect of a world in which he has friends, the prospect of a world where he and Evan figure out what they’re doing, the prospect of a world where he and Zoe communicate, listen to each other, are pleasant, if not friendly. He won’t take this for granted any time soon. It’s new, new to him, but so, so good, and he’s willing to try to live for this.

 

“I love you,” she whispers. “I wouldn’t know what to do in a world without my big brother.”

 

“I love you too, kid. You'd get by, but I’ll try to make sure you never have to deal with that.”

 

It’s a gentle, tender moment, and for the first time in years, he and Zoe are on the same page, are communicating openly and without anger, and are supplying each other with the comforting words they’ve both needed for years upon years now. 

 

He lets her go, and looks at her arm for a moment, the blood on her shirt, and his brain is in overdrive. “Are you okay? Oh god, Zoe, your arm!”

 

She laughs softly. “It’s fine.”

 

He looks her sternly in the eyes. “I can see bone. That’s not fine—”

 

She shrugs. “I can’t feel it.”

 

Then, there is a shadow over them, and suddenly Connor realizes that the sun is out, and shining as though it were mid-July, and the trees around them, despite the fact that it is now fall, are blooming, throwing out new blossoms, and there is no sign of red and orange leaves on the ground. He looks up, and there stands Evan. Looking worried, his eyebrows drawn together, mouth pressed tightly shut, as though opening it would be a mistake.

 

“Evan,” he breathes, and that need to hold the boy close is back in his chest, and Evan’s knees seem to give out as soon as Connor says his name, because Evan is leaning toward him, cupping Connor’s face in his hands, and babbling, tears streaming down his face.

 

“I can’t — Connor, you scared me so much — I can’t understand — you’re okay, you’re okay you’re okay — and I thought you were going to — but you didn’t, and you’re still here, and I don’t even—”

 

“Can I kiss you?” Connor asks quietly, and Evan leans forward and presses their foreheads together. He briefly sees a smile on Evan’s face, a smile of relief, pure and simple.

 

“Yes, please do,” he says, and that’s it, Connor isn’t waiting for any more permission. He surges the short way forward, and here it is soft, and warm, and full of light, so different from the rest of Connor’s world.

 

But now with Evan in his life, that might change. Connor hopes everything looks different now, looks better. Hopes he can see Evan’s presence in every facet of his new life. 

 

——

Her arm looks like something out of a horror show, and she knows there’s a massive bump on the back of her head, but right now, Zoe can’t feel anything, and her brother and Alana and her friends are okay, and so she’ll chalk this up to being a pretty okay day.

 

Connor helps her to the car. Around them, the orchard has gone into full bloom, and if her phone weren’t completely shattered to pieces in Evan’s khakis pocket, she’d totally want to take a photo right now. 

 

Alana hops into the drivers’ seat, since she’s shaking the least out of any of them and Jared’s technically not supposed to drive on the Sabbath, anyway. Connor, Zoe, and Evan pile into the backseat, Evan trying to make himself as small as physically possible so Connor and Zoe can have the majority of the space. Zoe wants to tell him that’s not necessary, that her arm is completely numb so what’s a little extra jolting going to do, anyway, but she figures that’d just freak him out. And since he’s probably reached his max freak-out limit for the day (as they all have), that wouldn’t be a great idea.

 

There’s blood in her hair, but Evan asks her if he can braid it, tells her she’ll need it out of the way for the doctors to look at her head, anyway, so Zoe lets him. As she leans into his comforting warmth, she considers something, memories of the summer before her sophomore year flooding her brain. “Hey, Connor,” she says, “remember those indigo streaks I did a couple years ago?”

 

Connor nods. “Yeah. They were pretty cool.” 

 

“I should totally do those again,” she giggles. Then, calling up to the front seat: “Hey, Alana, can you stop at CVS real quick? I just wanna buy some dye before my parents inevitably find out what happened and put me on house arrest for the rest of my life.” 

 

Evan lets out a huff, breath cool against the back of Zoe’s neck. “We are _not_ stopping at CVS,” he insists. “We are going straight to the emergency room, right, Alana?”

 

“Yes,” Alana agrees from the driver’s seat, eyes firmly on the road. “Sorry, Zoe. I’ll take you after you get out, though.” 

 

Zoe just laughs even harder at that, and Evan sighs. “You are definitely in shock,” he mumbles, and finishes her braid.

 

And yeah, she’s probably in shock, and maybe it shouldn’t be so funny, but then she catches her brother’s eye, and he’s chuckling, too, and that’s when they both lose it, bursting into full-on belly laughter.

 

And they just killed a thousands-of-years-old demon, and they’re all probably traumatized beyond belief, and this is _such_ a stupid thing to be laughing at, and they’re driving to the fucking emergency room, but — 

 

At least they’re alive. At least they still _can_ laugh.

 

So there isn’t really any place else Zoe would rather be. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah! I really hope you liked this chapter! It's really confronting, I know, but I hope the light bits balanced it out, even a tiny bit.
> 
> You can contact any/all of us on Tumblr @nose-coffee (me) and @cake-snake (the lovely HamiltonTrash).
> 
> Please drop us a comment telling us what you liked, or if you'd like to alert us to a typo or a trigger warning we missed.
> 
> Otherwise, we'll see you later this week, with the epilogue, brought to you by HamiltonTrash! Thank you!


	20. epilogue: hope despite despair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Oh, um, we were calling Evan to get his vote on where we should have breakfast.” Heidi raises an eyebrow, well aware that Zoe can’t see her. She nudges open Evan’s door with her hip and he rolls over, squinting in the light from the hallway. “’Cause Jared said White Castle and Alana said IHOP, and we either need to lynch Jared or get Evan’s opinion, and as I said, he isn’t answering his phone—”
> 
>  
> 
> “IHOP’s shit,” Heidi drawls, leaning in Evan’s doorway. She pulls the phone away from her ear. “Hey, Ev, what do you think of White Castle?”
> 
>  
> 
> “Disgusting,” he groans, rubbing his eyes.
> 
>  
> 
> Heidi brings the phone back up to her ear. “Lynch Jared,” she says, in a dead serious tone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, here it is, folks, the final chapter: the epilogue. We figured after tens of thousands of words of angst, it was high time to give these kids some happiness (although, since we are all the Angst Queens over here, that's not to say we didn't sneak some angst in... sorry, guys). 
> 
> I'm proud of us, and I hope you all are, too. Read the end notes, please, for longer thank-yous.
> 
> Chapter title taken from "Living Dead" from the musical Jasper in Deadland.
> 
> TW: Suicidal ideation mention, scars mention, talk of therapy
> 
> As always, please let us know if we've forgotten any trigger warnings, and without further ado, let's allow these kids to recover.

_epilogue._

Arriving at the hospital is a mess — Zoe’s taken away really quickly, and the rest of them are deposited in a shared room where they’re managed by nurses. Connor seems to be the most hurt out of the remaining four of them — hands burned badly, although he claims he’s fine.

 

Jared actually doesn’t think he should be in a hospital bed at all. If anything, he should be sitting in a chair beside one of their beds.

 

One of the nurses takes his hands and holds them up. “What happened here, Tyler Durden?” she asks. Jared lets her unwrap the bandages, hopes that they’ll look fresh enough to look like he wrapped them as hastily as he did at the orchard instead of in his bathroom.

 

She frowns at the cuts, already scanning over them, and Jared scowls. “You want to explain these to me, Mr. Kleinman?”

 

“It’s not important,” he mumbles.

 

“They are getting infected,” she tells him, matter-of-factly. “I’m going to need your parents’ contact details.”

 

“They’re on vacation,” Jared protests, casting a glance around the room. No one is looking at him.

 

“Well, they’ll have to cancel,” the nurse informs him.

 

Jared breathes deeply. “They’ve been saving up for—”

 

“Mr. Kleinman, I need your parents’ contact details,” she interrupts him.

 

“Please don’t tell them about my hands,” he whispers.

 

“Mr. Kleinman.” Her voice is softer this time, yet more firm.

 

He tells her his mother’s cell phone number, and watches her walk out, to be replaced by another disapproving nurse who cleans his hands, stinging and making him wince, rewrapping them with clean bandages. Across the room, Connor’s burns — third-degree, he thinks he heard someone say — are being treated, while he squeezes his eyes shut to stop tears dripping down his face. It doesn’t work, and Jared wants to help. He can’t, though.

 

Alana’s in the same state as him, relatively uninjured, but in shock, and has something akin to an asthma attack, briefly, when she speaks too fast, or laughs.

 

They think it’s just the shock, but Jared knows that it definitely has something to do with when they first entered the orchard that morning, and she suddenly went floating in the air.

 

Heidi is holding Evan in her arms, holding him through his sobs, and when they go to treat his back, sliced up by the flying glass he only just protected Connor from, they nearly have to tear Heidi away from him.

 

There’s only so much Jared can watch before he has to force himself to look away. He can’t watch them be in pain. It’d be like confirming every fear that the nightmare never really ended. And Jared can’t handle that. 

 

——

The look they get from the nurses when they burst into the emergency room almost makes Connor laugh. The five of them, covered in bruises, in mud, in blood, all with massive smiles on their faces, carting a more injured, definitely shock-stricken Zoe to the front of the line, were certainly a spectacle if ever there were one.

 

And then nurses are on them immediately, asking if there was an accident, if anyone else was injured, asking their names, ages, asking where it hurts.

 

And Connor laughs, because everything hurts, but it’s hard to think about when the biggest pain of your life has been extinguished finally and forever.

 

After each of them is admitted and they’re having their injuries attended to (and Connor can’t help but hate that they’re hovering over him and his burns, especially not knowing whether Zoe is getting the same treatment, especially not being able to see his friends. He is restless.), it is only then that they ask for his parents' contact details. 

 

And that throws cold water over Connor’s good mood, despite being in the hospital. His parents are going to find a way to blame him for this. He is, after all, the fuck-up kid who brought his sister to the ER with a broken arm and three of their friends. He will be the one to blame somehow.

 

He’s never going to see any of them again, after this. He will be grounded for the rest of his life for what he’s allowed to happen to Zoe.

 

And so, with ice in his veins, he gives them his mother’s cell phone number, and hopes to any god there might be that his father doesn’t show up as well.

 

And of course, Connor’s prayers would never be answered. They, with the exclusion of Zoe, are all moved into a room together, and so he sees when Heidi comes marching through the door, hellfire and fury in her eyes, ready to berate Evan. But then he sees the moment she takes him in, so small in the hospital bed, sees the moment she recognizes that her son needs his mom. Sees as she clambers up onto the bed with him, watches as Evan sort of collapses into her, like he’s let go of everything, every pain and hardship that had been keeping him upright.

 

He watches the Kleinmans come in, shocked, caring in their shouting, Jared’s mother coming close enough to stroke his cheek. And Jared clutches at that hand, holds it like a lifeline, and starts sobbing. He watches the Kleinmans realize just how bad it’s been, and watches Jared realize that as painful as what’s come before has been, this is the sun rising over the rest of his life.

 

He watches Alana’s father come into the room, hard-faced, and take in the room of mud-soaked, injured teenagers, barely giving Alana a cursory glance before turning back to a doctor and starting to discuss something in hushed tones with her. Connor watches as Alana’s face falls and she resigns herself to being ignored.

 

And he knows the exact moment his parents arrive. He hears his mother’s hysterical voice down the hall, followed by his father’s low and serious tone, asking where his daughter is. If Connor has to pinpoint a moment he knows he’s fucked, it’s this one.

 

His father is asking only for Zoe. He hears the nurse reply that she is in surgery, but that his son is down the hall, and he knows he’s in for it. He's let Zoe get so hurt she needs surgery. And he’s fine in comparison.

 

He braces for the moment his father comes through the door like Heidi had, but not stop to see him, really. Larry wouldn’t stop. Larry wouldn’t hold him while he cried for all he had lost to the creature he just killed.

 

What he doesn’t expect is for both of his parents to come through that doorway like they’re looking for Zoe, like they care. They know she’s not in here, so why on earth would they care this much. He seems them take in the room of injured, bloodied teenagers, before finally settling their eyes on him, and his mother immediately bursts into tears.

 

That rocks Connor to his core. But not as much as when he sees the unshed tears in his father’s eyes as they hurry over to him, grasp at his arms, avoiding the bandages that lie over his burns. And he can’t help but cry as his father pulls him close, like he knows that Connor needs this, has missed it since Larry started distancing himself from the pain that Connor he feels he brought into their lives, but now realizes It inflicted on him.

 

He cries for what feels like hours, and he knows he’s ruined his father’s suit jacket, but he feels his father sobbing along with him, and it’s okay. It’s okay, because his father is ruining Connor’s clothing just as much as he is ruining his. Not that there’s much left to ruin anyways.

 

“Connor, oh god, baby, where have you been? You haven’t been home in over a day, we thought you were lost, and hurt, and—” his mother sobs, because he is hurt. He hasn’t even considered how long his parents have gone without knowing where he or Zoe are. “And then all the cell coverage in the area went down, and we couldn’t find you, Connor, where have you been? What’s happened?”

 

And the truth hurts as Connor tells it, tells them about It, about how It had been hurting all of them for years, and how they don’t have to worry about his blindness anymore, that he has taken care of it. As he tells them that they are allowed to not believe him, but everyone in the room will back him up.

 

His parents share a look, knowing, and scared. _Nothing bad happens in Cloverport_ , it says. _Not if we forget it._

 

Connor knows they will fight hard to forget that this has happened. Connor will fight twice as hard not to. He has learned, he has become braver, he has made friends. He is worse for wear, but a better person for this, and he won’t let them strip that away from him.

 

He looks them in the eye and says it, what he’s wanted to say for years, tells them how fucking hurtful it’s been since they left him, since they decided he was a lost cause, since the only thing he was worthy of was an occasional doctor’s visit. Tells them how tired and scared he’s been. Tells them he wants therapy, tells them he wants to get better, tells them he can’t do it without them, and without their support, and without therapy.

 

He hopes it’s enough.

 

——

When his parents’ imminent return happens, Jared’s definitely not ready.

 

His mother shrieks his name and strides across the room, swiftly followed by his father.

 

“What the fuck happened, Jared? We left you alone for a fucking day and you end up in the hospital? This is the TV incident all over again.”

 

“Alice—” His father puts a hand on her shoulder, but she shrugs him off, choosing instead to kneel by his bed.

 

“Honey, what happened?” she asks, voice suddenly small. She looks very scared. Jared can’t even imagine what that phone call could’ve been like.

 

“You want the truth?” he sighs.

 

“No, Jared, we want you to lie to us,” his father scoffs.

 

“I’ve been being terrorized by a demon for the last eight years of my life, and tonight me and my friends killed it. One of them almost died, but thanks to my extensive Harry Potter trivia knowledge, we beat it and survived.”

 

——

Connor waits until the curtains are drawn and the lights are out, and he hears Alana and Jared’s breathing even out. They’re all being kept overnight for observation. 

 

Then he gets out of bed, crossing the room. Evan isn’t lying down. He’s sitting up, arms curled around his knees, pulled into his chest.

 

Connor draws the curtain behind him and climbs up onto the end of Evan’s bed.

 

“Hi,” Connor whispers. Evan offers him a soft smile.

 

“Can’t sleep?” Evan asks him, voice barely a whisper. Connor strains to hear it, even as close as he is.

 

“How could I?” Connor replies.

 

“Me neither.” Connor nods. “You know you saved us today, right?”

 

“Yeah,” he scoffs, thumbing the bottom of his hospital gown. “I also got my sister put in surgery.”

 

“At least that’s better than the morgue.” Connor inhales sharply and Evan frowns. “Sorry.”

 

“No, don’t do that, you don’t have to be sorry anymore.” Connor scoots closer. “How’s your back?”

 

Evan grimaces. “Still stings, but the doctor thinks they’ll heal pretty quickly. I think I’ll have some pretty rad scars.”

 

“Can I see?” Connor asks jokingly.

 

“When it’s more healed,” Evan replies, smiling a little. “Right now, all I’d be able to show you is some bandages. How about your hands?”

 

Connor lifts the bandaged appendages up. “Nothing to really see here.”

 

“Connor, you got third-degree burns,” Evan remarks with worried eyes.

 

He shrugs, letting them fall into his lap. “That I did. You’d think it’d hurt. But third-degree burns are relatively painless, after the injury itself.”

 

“Oh.” This appears to be news. There’s the silence of heart monitors and steady breathing from Alana and Jared. “Um. What’d your mom say?”

 

“Not much,” Connor says. “What about yours?”

 

“…Not much,” Evan echoes, a frown in his eyes. “I mean… I told her what happened, why I called to say what I did, that I was sorry. And she… she just said she understood, and that she was sorry I had to go through that alone, and that she was sorry she couldn’t be there.”

 

“But you weren’t—” Connor begins to protest, and Evan holds up a hand.

 

“I told her that. I told her I wasn’t alone,” he assures Connor.

 

“You’re not alone, now,” Connor finds himself whispering. “You don’t have to look at me like that.”

 

Evan shakes his head. “Like what?”

 

“Like I’m not really looking at you. Like I’m just looking past you. But I _am_ looking at you, and I _am_ listening to you, and…” Connor reaches out and gently takes Evan’s hand. He only winces a little, the burns protesting, but it’s worth it to see Evan relax. “It’s over, Ev. You don’t have to worry about It anymore. And if there’s any chance, any at all, that It could come back, I’ll be more than ready to fight.”

 

“You don’t have to—” Evan begins.

 

“Evan,” Connor says, cutting him off.

 

“Connor.” Evan releases Connor’s hand, and leans forward to lightly cup Connor’s face. He doesn’t kiss him like Connor had been anticipating, instead pressing their foreheads together, closing his eyes and breathing, slowly.

 

Connor relaxes into the hold, and the tension left over, what didn’t leave him when he was sobbing in his father’s arms, floods out of him, leaving him tired.

 

“You should get back in your own bed before we get in trouble,” Evan whispers, and Connor nods, letting him pull away, and getting off the bed.

 

“I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?” he says, almost jokingly, but half meaning it.

 

“I should hope so, considering we’re across the room from each other,” Evan laughs, quietly.

 

“Okay.” Connor ducks back through the curtain and settles back into his bed.

 

“Could you two be any louder?” asks Jared’s raw voice from beside Connor.

 

“Sure,” Connor replies. “Would you prefer screaming or crying?”

 

“Fuck you, Murphy,” he mumbles, muffled, as if into his pillow.

 

“You love me, Kleinman,” he replies.

 

“maybe in the morning, when I’ve had some fucking sleep,” Jared allows.

 

“Shut up, all of you,” Alana groans, and they all laugh, even Evan, before going quiet again, presumably to sleep.

 

Connor lies awake for a little while, just thinking about how it’s going to get better, how he doesn't have to feel helpless anymore.

 

He eventually drifts off.

 

——

It’s three or four weeks after they get out the hospital/after they killed It when Jared snaps. (He can’t quite remember how long it’s been.)

 

(That’s a lie, he knows exactly how many days it’s been since he last saw those yellow eyes, last heard the laughing, last felt the darkness envelop him until he was too frightened to look away, to scream for help.)

 

(Jared hasn’t gotten any solid sleep, waiting for It to come back.)

 

(Evan’s noticed. Evan always notices.)

 

Zoe’s got a big, bulky cast on her left arm, and Evan’s still got a few cuts and bruises all over him, and Connor’s still recovering from his burns, and Alana still has trouble breathing at times.

 

And Jared still winces when he sees the scars on his knuckles.

 

And they’re too busy tiptoeing around each other, around the subject of the therapy they’re all in now, around the fact that no one believed them bar Heidi, to actually see that they’re still scared.

 

And Jared’s had enough.

 

They’re laying around Alana’s living room, spread out on the furniture and the rug, not quite touching each other, not quite actually watching the TV.

 

And no one’s talking.

 

“That’s it!” Jared yells, and slams his fist into the hardwood floor. They all jump.

 

“J-Jared?” asks Evan.

 

“Is there something wrong?” asks Alana.

 

“Did we do something?” asks Zoe.

 

“Where’s the fire, Kleinman?” asks Connor.

 

“Give me your credit card,” Jared says, holding his hand out to Connor.

 

Connor recoils. “What?”

 

“Give. Me. Your. Credit. Card,” Jared repeats. “And then all of you go into your garden sheds and find as many axes as you can.” 

 

“Jared, I don’t even have a garden shed,” Evan replies.

 

“My garden shed is the size of your ensuite,” Alana says.

 

“I know I have at least one axe and a chainsaw,” Jared says.

 

“What’s up?” Zoe asks, a hand on Jared’s shoulder.

 

“Surprise excursion,” Jared replies loftily. “We can’t recover if there’s bits and pieces of It still here.”

 

He stands and takes Zoe’s good hand to lift her to her feet, off the carpet.

 

“Anyone here have a trailer?” Alana raises her hand like she’s in class. “Cool. Evan, go with her, get it ready to attach to my car. Zoe, Connor, you’re with me.”

 

“Where are we going?”

 

“Our garden sheds. And then, the orchard.” 

 

~

They reach the orchard only an hour and a half after Jared’s initial, vague-as-hell sales pitch. All of them look wary, and Jared actually cannot blame them.

 

He drives over the overgrown grass instead of just parking in the lot, and hopes that he can still end up at the willow tree, even though It’s dead.

 

He does.

 

The sight of the scraggly white tree still gives him shivers, so he’s on a mission. They all get out, and Jared pulls out an axe from the back.

 

“You know, Kleinman, I hope you didn’t bring us out here to axe-murder us,” Connor calls over his shoulder.

 

Jared waves him away and then stops in front of the willow.

 

He turns, and there’s Zoe, looking up at it with frightened eyes.

 

“Would you like to do the honors?” he asks her, softly, and she brightens.

 

“We’re chopping down the tree?” she asks him, a look of absolute delight in her eyes.

 

“We’re chopping down the tree.” He holds the axe out in front of him and ends up, for dramatic effect, kneeling on one knee, and holding it up on the flat of both hands, like a sword, looking at the ground. Zoe laughs, happily, and it’s the kind of laugh Jared could get used to. “First swing?”

 

“Gladly.” She takes the axe from his hands, and he backs away, watching her walk up to the tree.

 

Zoe takes a swing at it, and the axe embeds in the wood with a dull thunk. She turns to look at them, laughing. “I can’t get it out!” she giggles, and Evan goes to help her.

 

After that, it’s a systematic routine of passing the axe back and forth a few times, letting everyone have a go at getting rid of the tree.

 

Evan’s a little reluctant, at first, but after his first swing, he’s a little more enthusiastic.

 

Eventually, Alana helps Jared get the chainsaw out, and they truly chop it down.

 

Evan takes over and chops it up properly, before loading what’s left of it into the trailer. They have a bonfire in the Murphys’ backyard, burning the evil tree, burning the home of the creature who’d haunted them for years, toasting marshmallows and s’mores over the flames. 

 

They drink off-brand cola and sing campfire songs, accompanied by Zoe’s guitar.

 

Jared sighs, watching the sparks rise and flicker out. The crackle from the fire and their soft voices, their laughter, Zoe’s fingers plucking chords at random, it lulls him. Jared knows, with them, he is safe.

 

He falls asleep. 

 

He doesn’t know how long it’s been when he wakes, but he hears soft voices above him. His head is in Connor’s lap. His glasses are on one of the garden chairs.

 

“Should I wake him up? He should probably call his parents to tell them where he is…” That’s Zoe’s voice.

 

“Don’t you dare,” Connor replies jokingly. “I’ll call them. We need to set up the living room. Evan, done enough lifting for today?” 

 

“What did you have in mind?” asks Evan, stutter absent in his obvious fatigue.

 

“Letting Jared sleep on the couch, watch shitty movies,” Connor lists off, and Jared barely stops himself from joining the conversation.

 

“I’m so in,” Evan says, and seems to sit down next to Connor.

 

“Alana?” Zoe asks.

 

“Hell yeah,” Alana giggles, muffled, as though eating the rest of the marshmallows.

 

Jared goes back to sleep, vaguely registering when they deposit him on the couch.

 

The next time he wakes up, he’s on the couch, feet in Alana’s lap. Zoe is in between her legs, a half-drunk Capri Sun in her hands, eyes closed, chest rising and falling softly, and Connor and Evan have their backs to the bottom of the couch, snoring gently, Connor’s head on Evan’s shoulder.

 

Alana winks at him. “They fell asleep halfway through _Grease 2_.”

 

“Why are you still awake?” he inquires, sitting up.

 

“I’m on shift,” Alana shrugs, giving the whole living room a cursory glance. “Gotta keep you all safe from demons.”

 

Her tone is only half-joking, and Jared can hear the real fear in her voice. “On your own?”

 

“I’m fine,” Alana insists, smiling at him, like they’re just acquaintances in the hallway again.

 

“No. Take a blanket. Sleep. It can’t hurt you now.” Jared tosses the spare throw blanket at her, notices the way Alana seems to relax, as if she was waiting for permission to just let go. “We burned Its home and crushed Its heart. You’re safe.”

 

“Thanks, Jared.” She sounds genuine now. Alana nods to him. “Love you, yeah?”

 

“…yeah,” Jared agrees, a little dumbfounded. “Love you, Lana.”

 

He falls asleep a final time, smiling into the cushion. He loves them all. He’s so glad he let Evan talk him into going to the meeting. 

 

——

Most days, Zoe can pretend that she doesn’t still have to check her fingers every five minutes to make sure they’re still whole. Most days, she can pretend the nightmares have gone away; most days, she can pretend that what she saw in the orchard, what It showed her that day, doesn’t still flicker through her mind every waking hour. Most days, she can pretend that she’s marginally okay, that her recovery is solely on the up-and-up.

 

Some days, though, she can’t pretend. Some days, a girl just needs her friends, her girlfriend, and her brother. And so on those days, Zoe always makes sure to assemble her merry band of losers. It only takes a phone call to Alana, who’s typically the most efficient at getting them together, or a few exclamation-point-dotted messages to the group chat, and then they’re there, whether “there” is the 24-hour burger place (the site of the infamous “mayo burger” incident) or the Murphy house.

 

On this bitterly cold January afternoon, they’re gathered in front of the 80-inch TV her father is so protective of, old reruns of _Friends_ humming quietly in the background as they discuss their respective weeks. They’ve all been busy with first-semester finals and (except on Zoe’s part) college applications, her brother having just sent in his own application to the state school’s art program, so there hasn’t been much time for hanging out lately, and they’re in desperate need of a catch-up. Alana’s got one arm wrapped around her, and Zoe leans into her girlfriend’s touch, the warmth of the shorter girl a welcome comfort. She smells like the sugar cookies and cider she’d brought with her, which Jared and Connor had promptly devoured, leaving only crumbs and a few cups of lukewarm cider for the rest of them. 

 

The conversation’s just background noise, everything kind of going through one ear and coming out the other, Zoe lost in thought as she absentmindedly plays with one of Alana’s braids and muses over the potential prettiness of purple streaks in the other girl’s hair. It’s only when she catches the sound of Jared’s voice breaking that she gets slammed back into reality.

 

“Do you guys ever think about what you saw in the orchard?” he’s saying, the faintest of tremors running through his words. “Cuz, I dunno, I just — I think about it all the fucking time, man, and I obviously can’t talk about it to my therapist, and I—” Jared cuts himself off, the raw vulnerability of his confession evidently getting to him, and out of the corner of her eye, Zoe glimpses Evan shooting him a soft, reassuring smile.

 

A pit in her stomach has formed at the mere mention of the orchard, and Zoe would have half a mind to get up under the pretense of grabbing a glass of water if she didn’t think Alana would notice and start to worry. She wants to run away from this, but she can’t — and that’s probably not psychologically healthy anyway, right — so instead, she just buries her face in Alana’s shoulder and attempts to play the part of the touch-starved girlfriend (not like that’d ever be a thing with Alana).

 

It’s not that the others don’t know about what she saw in the orchard that day back in October. Alana knows — Zoe had told her first, in fact, just a week after it happened. Evan knows, too, although she hadn’t shared all the gory details with him for fear of provoking an anxiety attack in the older boy. Even Jared is well aware of what It had shown her not so many months ago, a late-night confession over schnitzel burgers and possibly-spiked cream soda that had kind of just slipped out. 

 

It’s just that Connor doesn’t know. And Zoe’s not sure if she wants him to know, if he _can_ know.

 

Because, see, there’s a part of her that will never stop wondering if maybe It had been right, if maybe Connor really _does_ contemplate simply ending it all. And that’s the part of her that drove her to hide the family supply of Tylenol in her pillowcase, the part of her that fought like hell by Connor’s side with Larry to get them both into therapy, the part of her that always checks in on her brother before she goes to bed for the night and freaks out just a tad whenever his door is locked (unless Evan is there, of course). 

 

And that part of Zoe doesn’t want to tell him, because even if he hasn’t been thinking about it already, what if it gives him ideas? What if Its hallucination pushes him over the edge, finally gives him the courage to do what he’s maybe always secretly wanted to do? 

 

If anything happened to Connor because of something she’d shared with him — Zoe knows she could never live with that. And so she hasn’t told him, and she’s made the others vow not to tell him, either. Even Evan has been sworn to secrecy, as much as it probably pains him.

 

Still, there are days where she questions if she should risk it and tell him anyway, because aren’t they supposed to be aiming for honesty now? It kills her to think about how they could’ve helped each other if one of them had just been _truthful_ about It, about what they’d been seeing, and so honesty has become their new policy. But Zoe isn’t really being completely honest if she doesn’t tell him what she saw in the orchard, is she? 

 

Her fingers curl into Alana’s sweater, and she hopes her girlfriend doesn’t catch the way she shakes her head slightly, as if to try and toss the idea out of her mind. She can’t tell Connor — is she crazy? Her brother’s life is something too important to risk, even if it means she’s a bit of a liar. She’ll take being a liar any day over being an only child.

 

“Zoe, you don’t have to share if you want, but — I don’t think you ever told us what you saw in the orchard. Do you want to?” Connor’s voice cuts into her thoughts, and Zoe starts at the unexpected question. Alana squeezes gently at her shoulder, and Zoe pulls away reluctantly, knowing she’ll have to do her best to meet her brother’s eyes and deflect the question.

 

Zoe’s pretty sure she can feel a tiny crack forming in her heart as she looks into her brother’s eyes and finds only earnest kindness and support there. His gaze is so different now, so much more open and inviting than the angry, closed-off boy of years past, and it hurts her to know that she’s lying even to this version of Connor, hurts her to think that he _wants_ to carry her burden for her, wants her to feel like she can share her pain, but she can’t. She can’t, because she has to protect him, won’t let herself relax until she’s certain her brother will never feel lost in the dark again. 

 

“I’d — I’d rather not,” she murmurs, eyes drifting to the floor because she doesn’t believe she can handle looking at Connor anymore.

 

Connor doesn’t press, just says, “Okay,” and moves on.

 

Zoe’s more bothered by that than she’d ever let on.

 

The mention of their encounters in the orchard seems to have dimmed the mood by quite a bit, and it doesn’t take long for them to start to go their separate ways, Jared dashing out soon after for a therapy appointment, Alana apologetically making her exit fifteen minutes later to go study for her AP Calc final. Evan’s the last to leave, reluctantly untangling himself from Connor at 5:30 when his mom calls with plans for a Taco Tuesday.

 

Then it’s just the two of them, Zoe and her brother, and there’s a heaviness in the air that she can tell is eating at them both. Connor’s the first to break their silence. 

 

“I’d never make you tell me anything, Zo, but — we’re trying to be completely honest with each other, right? So I’m gonna be honest and tell you that as stupid as it sounds, it kind of hurts me a little that you don’t feel comfortable sharing what you saw in the orchard with me,” he says. 

 

Zoe stays quiet. She doesn’t know how to respond to that.

 

“I know you told Jared,” he adds. “Don’t get mad at him — he didn’t mean to tell me, he just accidentally made an offhand comment, you know how he is.” 

 

The part of Zoe that doesn’t want to tell Connor, that part of her wants to be angry at Jared for that. But she doesn’t have it in her to be angry with him, at least not right now. In fact, there’s another, smaller part of her that kind of feels… lighter. _Relieved_ , almost. Like maybe she’s been sick of carrying this around with her for the past three months. 

 

She takes a deep breath. She knows what she has to do.

 

“That day in the orchard, It showed me you, Connor,” Zoe begins, voice already thin, hands already shaking. She can’t bear to meet Connor’s eyes, because she knows she’d see fear there, and that would kill her. She’s so done with fear; she’s so done with her brother being scared for her, because of her. She just wants him to be happy. 

 

“It, um…” She falters for a moment, but Connor reaches over, placing his hand on top of hers, and the touch helps. “It showed me you killing yourself,” she finally says. “Like, after you’d already done it — and It told me that it was the future, that it was my fault. And I just, I couldn’t tell you, Connor, I was so scared, I didn’t want it to trigger you or make you upset and—” She can’t hold back the tears anymore, dissolving into sobs at Connor’s sharp inhale, the way he sounds like he’s been punched in the gut by this revelation. She wonders if this was the right thing to do.

 

For a moment, she’s small and alone and feeling awful, but that all disappears the second she becomes aware of her brother’s arms wrapping around her, enveloping her in what’s quite possibly the warmest hug he’s ever given her, tugging her close and allowing her to cry into his shoulder, the fabric of his hoodie soft against her cheek. 

 

They stay like that for longer than Zoe knows, just silent, and she can tell that they’ve both been in need of this hug for a while. 

 

Silence is good. Silence is something she doesn’t get very often, but it’s good, because it’s the silence that reminds her she can’t hear the laughter anymore. 

 

Zoe likes the silence.

 

When she finally pulls away, she can see that Connor’s eyes are shiny with tears, too, and her chest aches a little as she acknowledges that okay, maybe Its hallucination held a small piece of painful reality for her brother.

 

But Zoe can also acknowledge that she has the power to help him, to reaffirm that what It showed her that day does not _ever_ need to be Connor’s future.

 

“If you ever feel like that,” she whispers, “ _please_ , come to me, Connor. I know it’s hard, but — you’re not alone. You’ll _always_ have me.” 

 

Connor just nods, and hugs her again, and it’s not anywhere near a certainty, but.

 

For now, it’s enough.

 

——

She’s not on shift until later tonight, and yet she’s still up at 8 AM.

 

Heidi yawns, opening the fridge and frowning at how empty it is. She hasn’t gone grocery shopping in a few weeks, but she’s also been home a lot more in the last few weeks. For Evan.

 

Her heart squeezes.

 

Getting the call to come down to one of the emergency wards because Evan had been admitted, two hours after the phone call that sent her into hysterics, had made her more frightened than she had been in years. 

 

Heidi was sure that her heart had stopped when he hung up. She had collapsed on the ground, tried calling him back, went straight to voicemail, screamed into the receiver for him to pick the fuck up.

 

They let her go home to check for him, but Heidi heard rain and other voices and an engine, so he wasn’t at home. And his phone was off. And then the reception towers out by the river went down and no one could make any calls, at all.

 

So Heidi had just been going on at her shift, trying not to burst into tears, trying not to break down, and then there was someone telling her they knew where Evan was, and that he was hurt — _Heidi, he’s not badly injured, but he’s pretty bloody, and it’s going to be a bit of a shock, so please take care of yourself_. 

 

Now, however, he’s home, and he’s safe, and he’s healed, so that the only proof he’d ever been hurt are thin white scars scattered down his spine and over his shoulder blades and curling around his ribs. Evan regards them with something akin to distaste, something close to disgust. There’s an aversion in his eyes, and Heidi wants to tell him not to be scared.

 

She wishes he didn’t have so many scars at such a young age.

 

Heidi closes the fridge and leans her head against the cabinet above it. She’s so tired. The first few nights after he was out of the hospital, he slept in her bed, like when he was seven and his father had just left.

 

Heidi doesn’t know how long she stands there. She just breathes, tries to quiet the ringing in her ears.

 

Heidi jumps when the phone starts trilling. Someone’s calling. She hurries over to where the receiver sits in its cradle and picks it up.

 

“Hello?” she says, and clears her throat. Her voice is all croaky.

 

“Hi? Uh, it’s Zoe. Zoe Murphy?” says a familiar voice on the other end of the line. The name rings a bell. “Is this the Hansen residence? I’m looking in this phone book, because Evan isn’t answering his phone, and he must still be asleep, so I figured landline would be the next obvious choice, but this is a really old phone book, so I can’t be sure—”

 

It clicks. Evan’s friend who had to have surgery on her arm. “Murphy, huh? This is Heidi, Evan’s mother. How can I help you?”

 

“Oh! Mrs. Hansen! Hi.” The reply is obviously surprised. She winces at the volume.

 

“That was too loud,” says a muffled voice from Zoe’s end. It sounds like Evan’s boyfriend, who he hasn’t properly introduced to Heidi yet. 

 

“Shut up,” Zoe hisses.

 

“Please, call me Heidi,” she says, walking down the hallway. “What can I do for you today?”

 

“Oh, um, we were calling Evan to get his vote on where we should have breakfast.” Heidi raises an eyebrow, well aware that Zoe can’t see her. She nudges open Evan’s door with her hip and he rolls over, squinting in the light from the hallway. “’Cause Jared said White Castle and Alana said IHOP, and we either need to lynch Jared or get Evan’s opinion, and as I said, he isn’t answering his phone—”

 

“IHOP’s shit,” Heidi drawls, leaning in Evan’s doorway. She pulls the phone away from her ear. “Hey, Ev, what do you think of White Castle?” 

 

“Disgusting,” he groans, rubbing his eyes.

 

Heidi brings the phone back up to her ear. “Lynch Jared,” she says, in a dead serious tone. 

 

There’s laughing in the background, and then the sound of skin hitting skin, sharply, and a voice yelling, “Ow, what the fuck, Zo?”

 

“I’m on the phone, be quiet,” Zoe mutters. 

 

“At least turn it onto speaker phone,” whines Evan’s not-boyfriend.

 

“Here’s an idea: all y’all come around here, and I make pancakes.” She winces at the memory of the last time she tried that. “Ones that are not cold, this time.”

 

“Really, Mrs. H?” Zoe sounds like a kid on Christmas. Heidi hasn’t heard many of them, but the excitement of a child dragging their parent through a department store with sparkles in their eyes does not have to be purely visual.

 

“Yeah, sure,” Heidi agrees. “I’ll have to go and get some stuff, but you can sit at home and play video games or something.”

 

“And leave you to fend for yourself in the lawless aisles of Whole Foods?” It’s Evan’s not-boyfriend again, Connor. “I think not, Mrs. H.” 

 

“I appreciate the sentiment.” Heidi taps her chin with her free hand, thinking it over. “How about you all come over here, and we’ll all go to the supermarket, together?”

 

“Like a family outing?” Zoe asks.

 

“If you’d like,” Heidi allows.

 

“Zoe’s gay!” cries Connor.

 

“So are you! And not that kind of outing, asshole.” The sound of a pillow snaking into skin, a muffled groan from Connor. “I’ll collect the group and be over there in fifteen. Prepare your finest son.”

 

“Fifteen minutes. Alright. See you then. Drive safely,” Heidi says, already feeling attached to these kids.

 

“Thanks, Mrs. H,” says Zoe, and then hangs up.

 

Heidi stuffs her phone in her bra and picks up a cushion off Evan’s floor. She tosses it at Evan. “Your friends are coming over in fifteen minutes, and then we’re going to Whole Foods, so get dressed.”

 

“We’re what now?” Evan asks blearily, sitting up.

 

“Get dressed.” Heidi motions to him, and walks down the hall to dress herself.

 

~

Jared insists on driving, saying this way no one will have to ride in the trunk. His sedan is larger than anyone else’s car, but Zoe still ends up seated on Connor’s lap. Heidi keeps casting calculating looks back at the teenagers in the backseat. They all look tremendously calm, which astounds her. They reach Whole Foods and Connor and Zoe end up yelling at Jared when he tries to back into a parking space.

 

Heidi chimes in with a, “How are we supposed to get the groceries in the trunk if the trunk is facing in?”

 

Jared changes tactics, and they go skipping into Whole Foods like a group of kindergartners.

 

Heidi watches them all join hands and go walking in a chain. Jared grabs her hand and tugs her along with them. They break apart when they reach the bay of carts, and Alana retrieves one, volunteering to drive it, which is really just an elaborate scheme for allowing Zoe to sit in it as she pushes, while Zoe makes sure the ingredients they procure don’t fall over. Heidi’s fine with that, so long as she doesn’t lose any of them.

 

Heidi reads out the list and the boys race each other to get to the ingredients first. It’s actually quite amusing, and Zoe and Alana agree with her when Heidi asks them to go and get some strawberries, and all three of them go rushing off.

 

At one point, as they’re choosing which ice cream to get, Jared drags Connor into a waltz, singing along to the Katy Perry song playing over the speakers, and Connor ends up dipping him in the freezer aisle (Heidi’s actually quite impressed with how clean the dip is).

 

By the time they’re in line for the register, Heidi’s got a stitch from laughing. “Oh, shoot, I forgot to pick up vanilla extract. We just ran out. Can one of you go?” Heidi gives them a mock-stern look as they go to start and then process her words. “I need the rest of you to help me out with stacking. Connor?”

 

“Sure, Mom,” he agrees.

 

“Did you just call Heidi ‘Mom’?” Jared snickers.

 

“No,” Connor replies, going bright red. Evan laughs and kisses him on the cheek.

 

Heidi sees the perfect opening. “Connor, do you see me as a mother figure?”

 

He brightens, obviously recognizing the _Brooklyn 99_ reference. “No. I see you as a bother figure, because you’re always bothering me.” Connor high-fives her and then goes sprinting for the baking aisle.

 

It’s nice, even if Heidi ends up squashed in the backseat because Zoe called shotgun, and who is Heidi to defy the rule of shotgun? Evan ends up seated on Connor’s lap this time, much to his obvious embarrassment. 

 

They hang around her as she cooks, helping set up all the ingredients and toppings, and setting the table, and playing music out of their phones, and laughing as they tug each other into dances.

 

Heidi’s house hasn’t been this alive in years. Zoe seats herself on the island bench and Jared and Alana compete for her attention by the stovetop, telling jokes and handing her utensils when she needs them.

 

Connor and Evan sway over by the table to some old Billy Joel song that Connor mouths the words to, foreheads pressed together, serene.

 

Once the pancakes are served, the table goes quiet, and the teenagers eat ravenously, scooping generous amounts of ice cream and syrup on top, eating strawberries right out of the bowl, and then Connor clears his throat and they all pause.

 

“Who built King Arthur’s round table?” he asks them.

 

Zoe’s eyes sparkle. “Who?”

 

“Sir Cumference.” Heidi chokes on her mouthful, and Jared laughs at the way Evan’s trying not to spit out his water.

 

Overall, it’s a good breakfast. 

 

——

Evan still winces when he catches sight of a scar in the mirror. He thought he’d be okay, after all, he’d lived over half of his life with a scar wrapping around his bicep, shiny and stark, so what difference could a couple dozen more make?

 

Apparently, a hell of a difference, because Evan can’t stand the sight of any of them.

 

It’s a rare occasion in which he actually sees one, but, when he does, it just reminds him of how he'd thrown himself over Connor, trying to protect him from the glass that had been flying everywhere, just reminds him of how Connor was already regularly writhing in pain, and Evan had acted on impulse.

 

When they’d healed, somewhat, Connor had coaxed Evan’s shirt off, in his room, and spent half an hour running his finger over each thin mark, spent that half an hour kissing each one and thanking Evan, quietly, calling him his hero until Evan had turned, climbed into Connor’s lap, and kissed him.

 

Pressure there still kind of makes him wince.

 

His mom is aware of this, too conscious of all the times she pressed a hand between his shoulder blades, a way of announcing her presence to him without scaring him that she’d developed when he was a kid, and seen him jerk away in surprise or pain. His physical therapist said they’d hurt for a while more before the pain would fade. An unfortunate consequence of a brave action.

 

But looking at the scars, he doesn’t feel brave. He doesn’t know what he feels, but it sure as hell isn’t brave. Foolish, maybe. Stupid, certainly, but what else is new.

 

He could never regret doing what he did to stop Connor from being hurt more. But it sickens him to see that It has left Its mark in his skin again. It sickens him to know that he will have yet another few silvery reminders of all It took from him.

 

He despises the way they mar his body, making him less his own and more Its, even after they destroyed It. He hates that he is still owned, in spirit, by that creature.

 

It sickens him.

 

So after the third time he flinches when somebody touches his back at this sleepover, Alana takes him aside and gives him an expectant look. The kind of look one could expect from a parent who is expecting news. 

 

“Alana, what—”

 

“What’s wrong, Evan?” she asks, and her voice is softer than he expected.

 

“Huh?”

 

“What’s wrong? You’ve been acting weird all night, you’ve barely spoken, and you freeze literally any time someone touches you. What is it?”

 

His mouth gapes open and closed like a fish on dry land as he tries to find the words to tell her how uncomfortable in his own skin he is. How much of himself has been taken ownership of. He comes up short.

 

“I can’t—”

 

“Bullshit, Evan. I know you, I’m your friend, I can tell when something is wrong. Please, tell me so I can help you.”

 

He takes a deep breath and digs deep. “I can’t get rid of It,” he starts.

 

“Evan, we’re all carrying It around with us in one way or another—”

 

And hot tears are running down his face, and Evan has no idea why he’s so angry as he pulls his shirt over his head to show her the ripped-up mess It made of his back.

 

“No, I can’t get rid of It. It’s never gonna go away, and I’m stuck with the scars, with the evidence, and I have to live every single day looking at this, remembering the childhood I could have had!”

 

Alana looks horrified looking at his scars, and he remembers how much it sickens him to look at them. What the hell is he thinking, showing them to somebody else?

 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, “it wasn’t fair of me to yell at you about this. You’re only trying to help.”

 

“I am,” and as though entranced, she reaches out to touch the gouges, and he winces as her soft fingertips come into contact with his skin. “You’ve been walking around for two months with these, barely even complaining?”

 

He nods.

 

“Holy shit, Evan. You’re so goddamned brave. It must hurt.”

 

“All the time,” he replies.

 

“That sucks.”

 

And somehow this almost normal conversation about the scars he received from a demon is calming him. It’s normalizing the whole thing. 

 

“I don’t feel like myself with these. I feel like… I don’t know. It’s stupid—”

 

“It’s not stupid, Evan your feelings are valid.”

 

“I feel like It took a part of me when It left. And left Its mark on me to tell me that I’m not my own anymore, if that makes sense. I— ugh. I don’t know. I feel awful, and I can’t make the feeling go away.”

 

Alana gives a second’s pause as she runs her fingers over the larger mark, and Evan hunches over, a habit he’s been trying to get out of.

 

“You’re so strong, carrying these around with you. It didn’t give you these. You earned them, Evan. You did something incredibly brave—”

 

“Yes, I know, I saved Connor, I made a brave decision—”

 

“No, you lived with It looming over your shoulder for 10 years. And having defeated It, you have the marks to prove it. Think of it as you owning the last pieces of It, instead. You own the marks It made as It was dragged back to hell where It belongs. You made it not It. This isn’t It claiming you forever. This is you, proud and victorious, with the marks to prove it.” 

 

And Evan hasn’t thought of it like that. He hasn’t thought of himself as victorious, as having been a fighter in some well-meaning crusade. As a survivor, sure. But now, with those words in mind, these are battle scars, something he has sustained, and is overcoming, both physically and mentally.

 

He smiles at Alana. “How do you always know what to say?”

 

She smiles back. “They asked me to be valedictorian for a reason.” 

——

She has stayed up into the early hours working on college applications, poured sweat and tears into personal essays, but not blood. If she never sees blood again, it will be too soon.

 

Even so, every day when she gets home from school, exhausted, ready for the hours of study ahead of her, she nervously checks the mailbox, looking for a small envelope that says she’s been declined, or a large envelope saying she’s been accepted, ending all of her college fears, wiping this worry from her mind. 

 

Today is no different; she walks up the drive and steels herself, taking a deep breath in, letting it out slowly, and opening the mailbox. There are bills, bank statements, newsletters, junk mail, and there, on the bottom, an A4-sized envelope, rich paper with the Harvard College logo on it. She grins and squeals, doing a sort of victory dance there in the driveway for just anyone to see.

 

Jordan comes running from the house, having seen her, looking for what good news he can see, as she opens the envelope as carefully as possible with shaking hands, hoping, wishing, praying that she hasn’t misinterpreted.

 

_Dear Ms. Beck,_

_Congratulations…_

 

It reads, and she knows. She knows now that she’s made it into her dream school, she doesn’t have to worry about the future anymore, because her next four years are planned out for her now. She grins at Jordan, who grins back, albeit confused.

 

“I got in,” she says simply.

 

“Is that the school you wanted?” he asks, nodding at the logo.

 

“Yes… yes, it’s the school I wanted.”

 

And the thought is in her head. Who does she tell now?

 

She walks to the house with her little brother, her acceptance letter in one hand, the rest of the mail in the other, and of course she has to tell Zoe. Zoe first, and then everybody else. 

 

She lays the acceptance letter out on the dining table, a place of pride, the first thing her parents will see when they get home, and pulls her phone out to start dialing. She leaves Jordan on the couch, watching _Teen Titans_ , and runs upstairs as the phone begins ringing, anticipating the exact moment Zoe will—

 

“Hey, Lana, what’s up?”

 

Zoe’s voice is slightly distrusting, waiting for someone who isn’t Alana to pick up. After It had used her contact to trick her, to hurt her, Zoe had been a lot more cautious with her phone. With just about everything.

 

And even as Alana’s heart hurts, just thinking that, she can’t help her excited yelp of: “I got in!”

 

She hears a gasp down the other end of the phone, and she has to quash her instinctive fear that Zoe has been hurt, is scared, is—

 

“Lana, that’s awesome, oh my gosh!”

 

Her heart slows, she can breathe. “Yeah,” she breathes, hoping her residual fear sounds like excitement over the phone. “Harvard, can you believe it?”

 

“Of course I can, Alana. You’re incredible. I knew you’d get in, but the reality is so exciting! When are you gonna tell everyone else?”

 

And she has to laugh, because of course the first thought on Zoe’s mind after telling her how good her news was was of the others. “Soon. I just, I should tell my parents first, right?”

 

“You told me before you told your parents? Lana—” Zoe is seemingly protesting, but Alana isn’t going to have any of that.

 

“I know, you’re just… around more than them, and you’re important to me. I wanted you to know as soon as possible.”

 

Zoe whispers something unintelligible down the phone line, something that if Alana didn’t know better would sound like ‘ _I love you_ ’. Alana sighs and smiles. “I didn’t think this would ever happen, what with—”

 

“It.” Zoe finishes her sentences with a voice hard as rock.

 

“Yeah,” Alana responds dumbly. “I’m happier than I can remember being for a long time. I’m not going to thank It for this, but I’m glad we were brought together, even with all the lasting trauma coming our way.”

 

“Me too.” And Alana can hear Zoe’s voice soften over the line, can hear a small smile form on her face through her voice.

 

Things aren’t perfect. But they’re pretty good. 

 

——

Connor sent his college applications in a while ago. Long enough ago that Evan, Alana, and Jared all already know where they’re going in the fall. Connor is stuck in purgatory. For all he knows, he hasn’t been accepted anywhere. But no one has sent him a rejection letter either.

 

And it’s annoying, and anxiety-provoking, and he only takes a month of smiling happily with Evan as he talks about the Environmental Science program at the University of Kentucky before he breaks.

 

“Evan, honest to god, I’m so happy you got in where you wanted, but I’m going to scream if I hear about college one more time!” he says.

 

And he immediately knows he’s fucked up.

 

Because Evan’s face goes white, and he shuts his mouth immediately, and he hasn’t explained himself, and Evan thinks that he’s done something wrong, when in fact he’s done nothing of the kind.

 

“No, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I — shit, Evan, I’m sorry. I just—”

 

“No, I can stop, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you angry, I’m sorry, Connor, I don’t know what I did—”

 

Connor reaches out and puts a hand on Evan’s shoulder, at which point Evan closes his mouth again.

 

“I didn’t mean it like that, I just—” He takes a breath. “We said we’re all being honest with each other—”

 

Evan flinches and closes off.

 

“No, no, nothing about you, I’m… I’m really frustrated by the fact that I haven’t gotten any letters from any schools I sent my application and folio to. And I’m already in enough shit at home for only applying to art schools. And… I’m really worried about getting accepted to a school that’s far away from you, and from home, and from everyone here. Mostly you.”

 

He hadn’t even been able to admit that to himself, and is surprised when that revelation is what comes out of his mouth.

 

Evan’s brows are furrowed now, and he worries he’s been too clingy, has gone too far, revealed too much.

 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to yell, it wasn't directed at you, not really, and I didn’t mean—”

 

“I’m sorry it’s gotten on your nerves. I know we’ve been really lucky to get our acceptances early. I guess there’s a lot more consideration taken into accepting someone into an art school. But you’ll be accepted. I know it, you’re too smart and talented not to be.”

 

Evan takes a breath, swallows his anxiety and continues.

 

“As for us being separated after school starts, Skype and FaceTime exist. We’ll both be allowed to drive by then. We’ll make it work. I believe in us.” He inhales, and worries his lip between his teeth, before speaking again. “You’re the best thing in my life, Connor. I love you—”

 

And Connor resists the gasp that sits in his lungs. He’d never said that before.

 

“And we can make it. We’re going to make it. Two people, who have been through as much together as we have, there’s no way we won’t.” And it sounds like a solemn promise, a vow almost, and Connor can’t help leaning forward to kiss him.

 

“I love you too, Evan.”

 

The beaming smile on Evan’s face makes up for all of the pain Connor has endured his entire life.

 

Of course the whole thing feels rather silly when Connor gets his acceptance letter from the University of Kentucky the next week. 

 

——

Confessing to Connor puts her worries more at ease, but it still can’t completely erase the fear It planted in her that day.

 

Moments like these are what reminds Zoe of that fear, what reminds her that fear is still very there, very real, and _very_ present.

 

She hadn’t meant to spend her Saturday afternoon sobbing on the floor of her bedroom — really, she’d just been sitting on her bed, trying to clean up her hundreds of undeleted voicemails, waiting for her brother to come home from his date — yet here she is, phone clutched to her chest as Connor’s panicked voice rings out in the air. “ _I wish I were dead. I wish I were just_ dead _instead of this. Oh my_ —”

 

The voicemail cuts off, but Zoe’s tears don’t cease. She can’t believe she’d never listened to the full thing before. As she’d cleaned out her voicemails, she’d gotten all the way down to crap from September, lots of messages from her band director and her guitar tutor and all that, and so she’d been surprised to see Connor’s name there, right next to a two-minute-long voicemail. And she’d been intrigued, wanted to know what he’d said, so she’d clicked on it.

 

_God_ , does she regret that, because now she’s heard her brother, saying he wishes he were dead, and she’s wondering if maybe It was right, if maybe she just shouldn’t have said anything to him at all back in January, if she should’ve insisted on keeping her secret. 

 

She presses “Play” again, filled with the strange, sudden desire to memorize the voicemail in full, as if the words aren’t already engrained in her head, carved into her heart. “ _Zoe, it’s not supposed to do this. It’s the second time today, and Zoe, I can’t see, I can’t see anything_ —”

 

“What the hell are you doing?”

 

Her phone clatters to the floor; she’s dropped it, Connor’s sudden appearance having startled her. She can only hope she hasn’t cracked it as she scoots backwards, up against the foot of her bed, and turns towards her brother. He’s standing in the doorway, arms crossed and face flushed, but she doesn’t see a trace of anger on his features. That’s something she still hasn’t gotten used to.

 

“Zoe, what the hell were you doing?” Connor repeats, voice softer this time as he finally gets a good look at her. She realizes he can probably see her tears and hastily wipes at her cheeks with her sleeve to remedy that.

 

“Nothing,” she mumbles, attempting to conceal her sniffles. “Just cleaning out my voicemails. How was your date with Evan? Did you guys go to the park?”

 

“ _Zo_.” She stiffens at the old nickname, an archaic epithet that dredges up memories of picnics by the willow tree, memories of a time when their parents didn’t argue and Connor’s life didn’t revolve around doctors’ visits and diagnoses. Her brother crosses the room in just a few short steps, courtesy of his ridiculously long legs, and sits by her side, criss-cross-applesauce, like they used to on the picnic blanket. 

 

“I know the sound of my own voice,” Connor says gently, placing a calming hand on her shoulder. “I know you were listening to something I’d said. What’s up?” 

 

And this quiet comforting, this actual big-brother normalcy, this is something Zoe’s so not _used to_ , even now, and something about it breaks the dam in her, opens the floodgates, and she’s sniveling again, pathetically so, as Connor watches. “I’m sorry, Connor,” she chokes out. “I’m sorry I didn’t listen to you when you tried to tell us how miserable you were, I’m sorry I didn’t try harder with Mom and Dad to get you into therapy, I’m sorry I acted like you were a burden—”

 

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Connor interjects, “Zoe, you don’t need to apologize to me. We’re not perfect, okay? God knows not a single person in this family is. We’ve all done our fair share of shitty things, and I definitely wasn’t the best brother I could’ve been, but that stuff doesn’t matter anymore, alright? We have to start looking forward now, focus on the future, because we can’t change the past. We can’t change the shit we did. We just have to make sure we’re better from here on out.”

 

“And,” he adds, “for what it’s worth, you’ve been a pretty great sister. I just never knew how to say it.”

 

He gives her a smile, a genuine, toothy grin, and she’s only ever seen him smile like that around Evan before.

 

She can’t help but smile back.

 

And then, of course, because she can’t resist: “You totally stole that stuff about the future from your therapist, didn’t you?”

 

“Yeah, maybe,” Connor admits, and Zoe laughs.

 

Moments like before remind her of the fear, but it’s moments like these that remind her of what will always beat it out.

 

Love.

 

——

Connor may have been disconnected from his family, from the outside world for a good long time, but he knows he can recognize one of Zoe’s panic attacks with laser point accuracy by now. It was hard to begin with, because she did such a good job at hiding them.

 

She gets distant, like she’s stuck in her head, and easily irritated, and then she starts to touch anything with a rough texture, like she needs to feel that her fingers are still there.

 

So when he sees three of these episodes in one week, he knows it’s time to take action. He knows she has spent years minimizing her problems so that their parents could focus on him, knows she has learned to minimize her problems even in her own head, knows she has spent years making herself smaller to make room for him, and all of the bulky problems that come along with him.

 

And he knows that even now that space has been made for her, she still doesn’t know how to take that space up. She doesn’t want to bother anyone, she doesn’t want to expand. She won’t tell their mother about what she’s going through, barely tells him, and it’s starting to become a much bigger problem.

 

So he turns to Evan, who is well-versed in anxiety problems and therapeutic solutions. The moment Connor mentions the fiddling, Evan’s eyes light up.

 

“She’s a tactile person — the guitar, the scribbling on her jeans — she needs to feel, right?”

 

And Connor thinks about it, and Zoe has always been a touchy person, always hugging, holding onto someone, tugging at a shirt, holding onto a backpack strap. And he nods.

 

“So we find her a collection of things small enough to keep in her pocket, but with interesting textures. So she can ground herself,” Evan says, and it’s such a simple, elegant solution that Connor could kiss him.

 

And he does.

 

~

He’s in a craft store, collecting supplies for his art class, when he spots these thick textured fabrics he think she would enjoy touching, and gets some of that on a whim, and leaves it in the pocket of her jean jacket when she leaves it out one night.

 

The next movie night, he spots the fabric sticking out of her pocket, sees her start rubbing it between her fingers as though to make sure they’re there. He smiles.

 

The next is when he spots curtain weights at the home decor shop when he’s out with his mom. This time, his impulse is more than a whim. He wants to help her. He enlists Alana’s help to sew them into little denim pouches, so its texture can ground her. Alana helps him slip these pouches into her handbag, and any pockets they can get near.

 

He spots her holding one while in line for coffee at Clover Caffeine. She smiles at him, almost knowingly.

 

He starts picking up rocks, small ones, braiding her little bracelets to wear and hold onto, doing anything and everything he can to help her cope.

 

That doesn’t stop him from finding her curled up on her bedroom floor in late April, sobbing. Something in his chest sinks, shatters, hurts so badly to see his little sister hurting that badly; her breaths come in short gasps and she’s clawing at her throat like that’s going to clear some obstruction that’s stopping the air getting to her lungs.

 

And he doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t know if she even wants to see him this. But he cannot leave her there, hurting and believing that nobody cares.

 

“Zoe.” His voice comes out croaky and quiet, but effective, as she looks up at him with wild, glassy eyes.

 

He can’t help it; he collapses next to her and pulls her into his chest, cradling her to himself, squeezing tight. He has never considered how tiny she is, compared to him, before, but it seems she took on their mother’s genes in this respect, where he took after their father.

 

And holding her like this sparks a memory he didn't even know he had.

 

_“You have to be careful with her, Connor. She’s very little, and very fragile. She can’t even hold her own head up yet, which is why you have to do it when you’re holding her. Now remember what I told you?” his father asks._

 

_They’re standing outside of a hospital room, and he’s so excited, because his mommy is in there, and so is his brand new baby sister. “I can't hold her unless Mommy or Daddy is there to watch, and make sure I don’t do anything wrong,” he says._

 

_“Exactly. In a way, you’re protecting her, by making sure we’re there. You want to protect little Zoe, don’t you?”_

 

_“Yes.”_

 

_His father opens the door, and there’s his mom, looking tired, but so, so happy, holding a little bundle of blankets. Connor runs, and climbs up onto the hospital bed, over the rough, off-white blankets, and kneels so he can see his baby sister’s face._

 

_It’s all red, and screwed-up, and she doesn’t look like much of anything right now. He feels disappointed._

 

_“Do you want to hold her?” his mother asks Connor, her voice soft and sweet, and comforting as sitting out in the sun._

 

_And Connor nods, and folds his legs so he’s steady. His mother arranges his arms, and then helps him hold his sister for the first time. She's so small, and he’s barely bigger than her, but he feels like the whole universe is inside that small body when she blinks and opens wide eyes to look at him for the first time._

 

_He smiles._

 

“Connor,” she gasps out.

 

“I’m right here, Zoe. I’m not leaving. What do you need?”

 

“I can’t breathe. It’s so hard to breathe.”

 

“It’s okay, look, breathe with me, okay? We’re gonna count.”

 

Zoe nods her head madly, and Connor inhales. “In for four, yeah, one, two, three—” She sobs, and he has to hold back his own tears. “Hold for three. One, two, three. Out for four, one, two—”

 

“I can’t, my arm, my lungs, It hurt me, Connor.” She’s desperate, her fingers grasping for purchase at his shirt, tears are falling from her face onto his shirt, and he wants to wipe them away, wants to swear no one will ever hurt her again.

 

“I know.”

 

He slips a hand into hers, and she squeezes tight, feeling the roughness of his skin, marked by accidental burn scars from lighting joints, scars from cuts he sustained while blind, and wounds he sustained and survived while defeating It. Crushing Its heart really fucked up his hands.

 

“I’m right here, Zo, and I’m not gonna leave. Not ever. I won’t let it ever hurt you again. _Never_ again.”

 

“Connor—”

 

“It hurt us, It tortured us, It took away our childhoods, It left us all with PTSD, anxiety, depression, but I got to come back to you. It helped me find you again.” He presses his lips into the top of her head, and her breathing has calmed somewhat now. “The only thing I will ever be thankful to I for is you four. You’re the best things in my life.”

 

There is a pause here, silent and resounding, where all he can hear is his own steady breathing, in contrast with Zoe’s shaking, gasping breaths.

 

“I know what you’ve been doing, slipping me those little gifts to help me cope.”

 

And her voice is so ambiguous, gasping as it is, he tries to apologize.

 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t want to invade your privacy, I just—”

 

“I love them, you know, and I’m so grateful. That you saw, and you thought of ways to help me.”

 

There’s an eerie calm to her voice.

 

“Everybody helped me with it, Jared 3D-printed the charms on the bracelets. They all care so much, we’re all here for you,” he admits.

 

“I missed you, Connor, all those years, I missed you.”

 

“I missed you too, Zo. More than I care to admit.”

 

“We can’t ever do that again. We’re so much better like this. I love you, Connor.”

 

“I love you too, Zoe.”

 

Connor doesn’t know how long he sits with his sister in his lap, just holding her till she’s calm, but it’s long enough that she falls asleep, her head lolling against his shoulder, and there’s a little serene smile on her lips.

 

He lifts her onto her bed, and leaves her to sleep off the panic attack, though not before sending a Snapchat of her sweet sleeping face to Alana.

 

He’s so glad to have his sister back. 

 

——

It’s a Saturday night in late April when Jared invites them over for movie night. They do this often, to try and regain that feeling of normality, the feeling that they have average friends and live an average life. Watching _The Princess Bride_ and _The Breakfast Club_ in quick succession with over-buttered popcorn to boot help make them feel that way. Jared just seems to have a knack for finding exactly the right movies for a mood.

 

Alana has spent the night curled into Zoe, her head resting on the taller girl’s shoulder, her hands never straying from Zoe’s waist, holding her close, and dear. It’s the best way to watch any movie, she has discovered. Leaning against Zoe is warm, and soft, and makes her feel so safe with her arms around her, holding her closer still.

 

It has been twenty minutes since Connor and Evan left, Evan claiming he has something to do tomorrow, but everyone else in the room knew that they had been holding off on the PDA for their sakes, and were escaping to go and make out. Nobody mentions it as they leave, the blush on Evan’s cheeks obvious even in the dim lighting.

 

Zoe shifts under her for a moment, reaching into her back pocket to get her phone, revealing a message from Connor, asking when she was planning on coming home.

 

Zoe yawns, and tears spring to her eyes; the first few times Alana had watched this happen, she got very overprotective, very fast, wanting to know what Zoe was crying about, how she could fix it, desperate to make sure she wasn’t hurting.

 

Now, she had seen it happen enough times to be able to soothe the jump in her heart rate and that little voice in her head that begged her to hurt whatever was hurting Zoe. Instead, she smiles serenely and wipes the little tears that sprang up away.

 

“You tired?" she asks, voice raspy from several hours of misuse, yelling over everybody else as they recited the words to _The Princess Bride_ , or when they had to calm Connor down about the misrepresentation in the smoking scene of _The Breakfast Club_.

 

Zoe nods, and stretches her arms outwards to increase blood flow. Alana finally looks over to Jared, who is curled up in the armchair with a cup of tea held close to his body and his phone up close to his face. Even so, he is looking at them over the top of his phone, waiting with bated breath to find out what they would do now, how swiftly he would be abandoned.

 

Alana makes up her mind more quickly than she knew she could. “Go home, Zo. Get some sleep. I want to stay a while longer.”

 

Zoe furrows her brows at her, confused. Often when they left these get-togethers, Alana would beg her to take her home, beg her to hold her as they fell asleep, desperate to be close. They were all touch-starved, isolated teens, and Alana is determined to fix that.

 

That said, she isn’t about to leave Jared here on his own. Not when he is giving her that look. “Go on, I know you want to sleep,” she says.

 

Zoe says her goodbyes, and as she walks out the door, Alana is struck with the sudden realization that she’s never really spent any one-on-one time with Jared before. She doesn’t really have any idea what Jared likes, and certainly has no idea how to start a conversation with him. She takes a deep breath as she closes the door behind her girlfriend. She waits until she hears Zoe’s car start before talking.

 

“You know you can tell us if you don’t want to be alone. We all get it.” She fixes her gaze hesitantly on Jared, but her voice betrays none of that. “We need to be honest with each other if we’re going to help each other. We want to help you.”

 

Jared, to his credit, does a very good job at hiding the shaking of his bottom lip, the tears in his eyes. “I don’t—”

 

“I know.”

 

“You guys—”

 

“Really, Jared—”

 

“No, stop, Alana, you don’t know. You _don’t_!” Jared’s voice is fierce, righteous in his anger, feeling utterly justified. “You went through all of that, all of that trauma, and you came out the other side with a girlfriend, and a class president title, and Valedictorian, you got everything you could ever want. Connor and Evan got each other. I get to sleep. And hang out with friends who would much rather be at home, making out, discussing their future children, describing how beautiful the other is. You don’t want me. I’m not even the fifth wheel here. I’m the spare tire. I’m carried around for those ‘just in case’ occasions.”

 

Alana is taken aback, almost shellshocked at the revelations that Jared isn’t as blissfully happy as they all are. “Jared, we don’t think that—”

 

“Not consciously, but you all act like it. You hang out here, or over at the Murphys’, and then two by two, peel off to go do more interesting things, and leave me alone, in the dark, and it’s not different!” Jared isn’t bothering to hide the tears now, though he is furiously wiping them away. “Like, I’m _soo_ happy that you’ve all paired off, and found happiness, peace, and security, but shit!” 

 

“I’m sorry,” she says, unsure of what else to say. “We didn’t mean to make you feel that way, we would never—”

 

“No, I know that, shit, I don’t think you guys are monsters, I just— look, we said we’d be honest and open about everything, before and after It. And honestly? I’m feeling lonely, and like you guys don’t want me around, and logically I know that’s not true, but I can’t help that little voice that sounds like It in the back of my head, telling me that. I can’t stop it. I can’t stop thinking I’m not worthy of this group of friends, and the bond we’ve created. I can’t help but feel I’m a placeholder for someone better, and funnier, and nicer.”

 

Alana feels like the air has been sucked from her lungs, knocked from her body, because having defeated It is supposed to fix all of their problems, especially these ones. They’re supposed to be happy and carefree now.

 

But Jared is still curled up in that armchair, tea set to the side, slowly but surely getting cold, tears streaming down his face, confessing to her that nothing has changed for him, no matter how drastically it had all changed for her.

 

Without thinking, she moves forward so that she is kneeling in front of the chair, her hands on his face, keeping his eyes fixed on her face, voice steady and serious as she begins.

 

“Jared, you’re irreplaceable. Really. Zoe wouldn’t be here without you, and I’m so grateful for that, but more than that, you’re a great friend, and a great person to be around. It’s not about being worthy of us, or this friendship. We like you, we like being around you. You don’t have to do anything more. You don’t have to prove yourself, you have shown yourself, like everybody else in this group, to be a worthy adversary to It. That’s it. We’re all different. We’re all working our way through some pretty fucked-up stuff, but regardless of what your brain is telling you, we are here for you, whenever you need us.”

 

“Alana, I’m so alone.”

 

“You’re never alone, you never have to be alone, we’re here. We’re _always_ here.”

 

Jared seems to crumble, and despite them never really having had amicable conversation before, Jared has collapsed into her arms, is sobbing into her shoulder, gasping like a fish out of water. And all she can do is hold him close and stroke his hair, and just let him know that she’s there, that she’s not going to leave, that she cares about him.

 

They stay there for a while, until Jared’s gasping breaths get fewer and further between, and until the tears stop coming, just in the floor of his living room. She has long since become stiff, and her eyes have wandered to the shelves behind the armchair that seem to hold games.

 

“Hey, is that _Portal_ I spy?” she asks quietly.

 

Jared sniffs, and laughs a little. “Yeah. I know, it’s a stupid popular game—”

 

“Are you kidding? I love _Portal_. It’s great for problem solving and creative thinking. We are playing _Portal_ , Jared, you don’t get a choice now.” 

 

~

They have been playing together for a full four hours now, Jared surprised by how good at gaming she is, when there is a knock at the door. She and Jared look at each other with quiet fear, and there is another knock.

 

Alana swallows her fear and pauses the game, getting up to get the door. She can feel Jared following close behind. She opens the door and sighs in relief as Connor, Evan, and Zoe appear from behind it.

 

“What are you doing back here? It’s two in the morning!” she says, cautious to keep quiet.

 

Zoe steps through the doorway, and only now does Alana realize she’s holding an overnight bag and her pillow.

 

( _The pillow she was sleeping on last night; the pillow her hair had been fanned out on when Alana — the pillow Zoe had buried her face in in the morning when the sun had hit her face, like a child who didn’t yet understand the concept of object permanence, who thought the sun would leave if she wasn’t looking at it.)_

 

“We’re having a sleepover. One for all, and all for one and all that. We thought you guys could do with some company,” Zoe says, and Alana can feel Jared shift behind her. She glances over her shoulder, and Jared is smiling, trying to hide it, but is certainly glad that everybody has returned to spend time with them.

 

She smiles back at him. “Shall we set up in the living room?” she asks.

 

He nods. “Remember, no keggers, don’t break anything. You break it, you buy it.” He echoes the words from the first time Alana came here, under significantly more dire circumstances.

 

As they move back to the lounge room, every new member of their party greets Jared as they do her, a firm hand on the arm, and a genuine smile, or a hug, or just a slap on the back. He smiles wider than she thought possible, and she hopes this is the first of many get-togethers that reminds him that they think the world of him.

 

——

Connor does a better job of pretending than she does, but there are still occasions where Zoe’s reminded that she didn’t go through this alone, that It hurt more people in her life than just her. 

 

Lately, there’s been a lot of those occasions.

 

The problem is that Connor doesn’t really like the dark all that much. It overwhelms him, it scares him, and he won’t say why, but Zoe’s pretty sure it’s because he can’t tell if it’s just nighttime, or if he’s lost his sight again. Whether or not that’s correct, what she is _absolutely_ sure of is that Connor wakes up in the middle of the night terrified. Their walls are thin enough that she can hear him sobbing from the next room over. Some nights, he screams.

 

The first few times it happened, Larry and Cynthia had gone to check on him, their mother making him hot cups of tea and Larry doing his best to be reassuring. They contact his therapist, who simply diagnoses the episodes as night terrors, because she doesn’t know the truth, and how could she? But the “terrors” don’t stop, they just keep getting worse, more frequent, and eventually, their parents stop going into his room when they happen. 

 

So it’s left up to Zoe to take care of her brother. Not an unusual occurrence, really. And when she hears him crying out at three in the morning for the fifteenth time (she’s been counting), she knows she has to take action, pronto.

 

She waits until he’s out with Evan and Jared to hop onto her laptop and peruse Amazon. It only takes her about ten minutes to find what she’s looking for — Zoe Murphy is a woman on a mission, and when it comes to her brother, she knows how to get shit done.

 

She splurges and gets overnight shipping. She’s not sure how many more tear-filled nights she can handle before she loses it.

 

When the package arrives the next day, Zoe tears it open and runs upstairs. Connor’s got a therapy appointment today, but he should be home in half an hour, and she’s going to need every minute of that to prepare her surprise. Hopefully he won’t freak when he figures out she’s been in his room.

 

She’s just finished setting up when she hears the door slam downstairs and knows her brother’s home. Zoe tosses the packaging in the trash and just manages to make it into her room before he gets to the top of the stairs. He’s angry, upset about something — she can feel it in the heaviness of his footfalls, in the way he slammed the door when he got home — and she hopes that this will help the problem rather than exacerbate it. 

 

She listens through the wall for his reaction, and for a few minutes, there’s nothing but silence. She’d guess he’s probably texting Evan, too distracted by that to notice what she’s done. So she waits, clutching at her guitar strap, and she listens.

 

After a good ten minutes of waiting, she finally gets her reaction, a muttered “ _What the hell_ ”, then the bang of a door as Connor throws his open and comes over to stand in her doorway. 

 

“Zoe,” he says, “did you put glow-in-the-dark stars on my ceiling?” 

 

He looks tired — there’s bags under his eyes, purplish and dark against the pale of his skin, and his hair is messy, like he hasn’t showered in a while. But he’s smiling at her, small and cautious, and Zoe’s so happy to see him doing that. She doesn’t get to see her brother’s smile often enough.

 

“Yup,” she giggles, and Connor’s smile grows wider.

 

“Thank you. I love them.” 

 

Three months later, his therapist is baffled as to why Connor’s night terrors just stopped out of nowhere. 

 

But Zoe knows why.

 

——

Waking up with Zoe has to be the best thing that has become a part of Alana’s life since It. They would talk until 3 in the morning, talk for what feels like half an hour but ends up being six hours, and fall into each other, exhausted and loving.

 

Alana wakes up to soft sun on her face, falling across the room from the wide window in Zoe’s room. She follows the sunlight up to Zoe’s face. Zoe looks so calm, so perfect, so young and innocent like this, no trace of past traumas creasing her face. Her face, sunkissed, with a sprinkling of freckles, like the stars had descended from the heavens just to bless her face, with lips still slightly swollen and kiss-bruised, which makes Alana feel a strange sense of pride.

 

She is so ethereally beautiful, looks like an angel, so unearthly in her beauty, Alana is afraid that if she gets too close when she breathes, she will ruin the whole illusion.

 

She isn’t perfect, never will be, and it’s her imperfections, her quirks, her scars, her traumas that make Zoe, Zoe. The girl that Alana is in love (In Love!) with.

 

She wouldn’t change her for the world on a silver platter. Alana folds herself closer to Zoe’s side, and falls asleep to memories of soft touches and joyful laughs shared in beautiful moments. 

 

——

“Connor, it’s really not that hard, you just have to make sure there aren’t any other cars in your lane—”

 

“Zoe, would you kindly _shut the fuck up when I’m trying to merge_ —”

 

“I’m just trying to help you, Jesus, it’s not brain surgery—”

 

“Well of course it’s not hard to you, you’ve been doing this for _two fucking years_ —”

 

Connor swerves hard into the left lane, and Zoe slumps in her seat at the sound of a car horn blaring at them, the Mercedes behind their beat-up Subaru no doubt beyond irritated by Connor’s reckless maneuvering. For the millionth time, she asks herself why she agreed to teach her brother how to drive. Sure, the nearest driving school was in Louisville and cost more than her mother’s fancy designer sunglasses, but it wasn’t like their family couldn’t afford it.

 

After going over six months without the attacks from It that their parents’ favorite specialist had diagnosed as epileptic seizures (or, at least, without _reporting_ the attacks to anyone), Connor had managed to get his doctor to drop his diagnosis of epilepsy. Larry and Cynthia weren’t happy about it, but Connor’s been working on his license for the past six months — turns out being eighteen in Kentucky makes the process of obtaining a license a lot speedier than it had been for Zoe.

 

Her brother’s not an awful driver. In fact, most of the time, he’s pretty good. It’s just merging that seems to trip him up. 

 

However, the fact that merging is still tripping him up and he’s currently on the way to go test for his license at their local DMV — that, Zoe knows, is going to be a problem.

 

When they arrive, Zoe waits in the parking lot for him, providing Alana with live updates and sorting through good luck messages from Evan, Jared, and their parents (that last one certainly comes as a surprise). 

 

Connor emerges twenty minutes later stone-faced and silent, the DMV instructor pulling their car around (they’d had to use it for his test) and getting out, handing the keys over to Zoe. “Better luck next time,” the instructor, a middle-aged, petite blonde woman, calls over her shoulder as she heads into the building.

 

Zoe knows better than to press him for information out here. Connor doesn’t try to take the keys from her, so she hops into the driver’s seat, gets situated, and waits for her brother to buckle his seatbelt. Her phone’s buzzing in her back pocket — probably Alana responding to her latest text, or maybe Evan — but Zoe ignores it as she pulls out onto the main road, Connor unusually still and quiet next to her. Out of the corner of her eye, she can tell that he’s texting Evan, fingers flying across the cracked screen of his iPhone, and she hopes that’ll be enough to keep him relatively calm until they get home.

 

She can’t imagine how awful he must feel right now. He’s been working so hard for this, fought so hard to try and get it done, and Zoe knows he’ll be able to retest in a week, but still. This probably feels like a slap in the face for Connor, and she’d honestly be surprised if this didn’t serve as at least a minor setback in his recovery. Her fingers tighten on the steering wheel just at the thought of Connor sliding backwards — not to say that he will, but. She worries for her brother.

 

“Do you wanna tell me what happened?” she finally asks once they’re stopped at a red light, making sure to keep her tone as gentle and supportive as possible. 

 

“She asked me to parallel park, and I hit the curb. Just barely touched it, but — she asked me to try again, and I got nervous, I guess, and then I just kept hitting it. So she failed me,” Connor replies, voice low. He seems like he’s barely holding on to control, like he’s the verge, and that only increases her anxiety. “The funny part is,” he adds, “I merged perfectly every time. She said I was great at changing lanes.” He laughs, but it’s not the warm, happy sound Zoe’s grown accustomed to — no, this laugh is bitter and hollow, and it makes her chest tighten with nerves.

 

“You can retest in a week, Connor, and in the meantime, we’ll practice, help you build your confidence, focus on parallel parking—”

 

“I just want to be normal, Zoe,” Connor says, and his voice cracks on her name. Zoe’s thankful she’s turning onto their street, or otherwise she’d have to pull over to deal with the imminent flood of tears. “I just want to be normal,” he repeats, “a normal fucking eighteen-year-old. Is that so much to ask? I just want to have my fucking license and not have to fight with specialists and our parents and the DMV to even be allowed to take the goddamn test, why can’t I just be _normal_?”

 

Zoe would like to pretend she has the words to respond to that, would like to say that she has the perfect answer to reassure him that “ _you don’t need to be normal, Connor_ ,” but she can’t think of anything to say, and, honestly, 99% of the thoughts running through her head right now would probably just sound hokey and cheesy to her brother if she tried to share them.

 

So instead of speaking, she pulls into their driveway, and she shuts off the ignition, and she gives her brother a hug. She lets him cry it out — something they’ve both been doing a lot lately — and she lets him vent into her shoulder. And when they get into the house, she promises him that she’ll devote all her spare time to helping him practice, promises him that he _will_ get his license, and swears that if he isn’t a licensed driver by the end of the summer, she’ll happily drive him around until they’re old and gray (okay, maybe she’s exaggerating a little with that one, but it makes Connor chuckle, so that’s alright). 

 

A week and a half later, he passes his test with flying colors.

 

Zoe’s never been so proud.

 

——

Alana’s relationship with her parents is rocky, to say the least. Not because they don’t care, and not because they’re mean or awful, at least not on purpose. They just don’t have time for her unless it’s important.

 

That’s why Jordan is her number one priority, making sure he knows he can come to her if he feels he can’t go to their parents.

 

But now she’s hesitating to knock on her dad’s office door. She has been given instruction time and time again that she is not to interrupt any work that is happening in the office unless there is a fire or someone is bleeding. But she has come to the end of her tether. She is barely holding onto her sanity. Surely, surely this is important enough.

 

Her raised fist shakes at her thought of knocking, and she wonders why she’s so scared to do this. Her parents have never been anywhere near violent, never really even raising their voices. She has nothing to be afraid of.

 

Maybe she’s so scared to reveal these broken pieces of herself to him. She knows her father values perfection and hard work above all else.

 

_That’s it,_ she thinks, _I’m scared because he’ll know I’m not perfect anymore._

 

There is a resounding banging noise, and she realizes she has knocked. It’s too late to turn back now.

 

_“I’m_ broken _,” she sobs to Zoe one night. “I’m supposed to be happy, I’m not supposed to be scared anymore. But I can’t help it, I’m so scared all of the time, always, and I can’t help feeling that It’s always there, waiting for the right moment to taunt me. I can hear It laughing, Zoe, I can still hear It.”_

 

_Zoe’s hands are twisting their way through her loose, freshly-washed hair, pressing, brushing, trying to provide some comfort. But Alana is so scared that now Zoe has seen how broken she is when everything is supposed to be fixed, she can’t focus on the comforting gesture._

 

_“You’re not broken,” Zoe affirms. “You’re not. You’ve gone through years of knowing you have to be on your guard. It’s hard to let that go. It started getting better for Connor and I once we started going to therapy. Connor’s trying new medications now, to try and help him, there’s no shame in it.”_

 

_Alana wishes it were that easy._

 

“Come in,” chimes her father’s voice, and Alana steels herself for this interaction. Wants to make sure she won’t cry. She must not cry. She can’t show a shred of weakness, even in her hour of need.

 

“Dad?” Her voice is small, too small, she’s started weak. It can only get worse from here on in.

 

“Lana? Is something wrong?” Concern is evident in his voice, and Alana wishes he sounded like he cares this much all of the time.

 

“I need help.”

 

“Alana, I’ve told you so many times, just get the step stool, it’s not that high to reach a—”

 

“No, Dad, I need professional help.” She tries to sound strong, and resilient, but she knows he can hear the fear.

 

“Professional help, Alana, what—” He is protesting. She knows if she lets him, she will be talked out of this, and she _needs_ this. She needs to get better.

 

“Dad, I’m terrified all of the time, and sad. I can’t enjoy things anymore. I’m sick, and I want to get better.”

 

“Alana, do you have any idea of the price—”

 

“You would pay it if it was my liver being dysfunctional. This is my brain, the part of me that controls everything else, and it’s not working properly. Please—”

 

“Lana, it’s fine, you’ll feel better—”

 

“ _When_?!” She’s yelling. And she’s crying, and her father looks thoroughly taken aback. “When will I feel better, Dad? Because I have felt so, _so_ scared for years on end now, and it was supposed to stop, and it hasn’t! I was supposed to be better by now, and I’m not, and I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

 

“Alana, nothing is wrong with you.”

 

“That’s not true,” she says. “It’s like there’s a piece of me missing, and it’s been gone a long time. Dad, I want to be happy. Please, please help me be happy again.”

 

She knows she looks like a mess. She knows her cheeks are wet with tears, and her bottom lip won’t stop wobbling, and her hair is everywhere. But she also knows she’s made her point.

 

“I’ll book you in with a therapist soon. Who will look after Jordan while you’re there?” he asks.

 

Alana doesn’t mean to sound as uncaring as him. “He’s not my son. I think you’ve forgotten you’re supposed to be his primary caregiver. It’s not up to me to make sure he’s supervised.”

 

She closes her eyes for a second, regretting what she’s said. She backpedals. “I’ll get one of my friends to look after him. He likes them.”

 

She turns and leaves the room. She doesn’t close the door. Neither does he.

 

The door stays open for months afterwards. It’s not the same as having a proper dad, but at least she doesn’t have to be scared to knock on the door.

 

——

Evan tries to focus on the TV, but he’s not really getting into it.

 

His mom, however -- she seems rapt.

 

The movie was Jared’s suggestion.

 

( _“I’m sorry, how the fuck have neither of you seen_ Die Hard _? Apart from_ Princess Bride _and_ Stardust _, that’s the best fucking movie ever!”_ )

 

Evan’s just not invested.

 

This isn’t the first movie night — on nights that his mother doesn’t have class or a shift, they order pizza (and Evan is proud to report that he’s getting better at that) and put on a movie, and spend the night on the couch.

 

Sometimes his friends join them. Sometimes only one of them does. Evan likes having them there. Likes feeling their warmth beside him, feeling them curled into his side. He knows his mother does, too. She really likes them, and it might just be because they suffered and survived, the way she did, and it might just be because they’re his friends, or maybe she just likes them overall, but when they’re all over, the house seems a lot brighter.

 

However, when it’s just Evan and Heidi, that’s a different story. It took a bit of time to really feel fully comfortable around each other, without feeling the need to spill their hearts out to each other, but eventually, it got easier.

 

It is easier. Evan sees that. 

 

He knows she still has trouble understanding that there are some things It showed him, told him, drove him to, that he just can’t share with her, because that’s his weight to bear, but she’s trying. And that’s the most important part.

 

She notices.

 

“Don’t like Bruce Willis?” Heidi murmurs between mouthfuls of popcorn.

 

Evan shrugs, setting his bowl on the coffee table and curling his feet up underneath him so he can lean on her shoulder. She accommodates for him, lifting an arm around his shoulder, his head on her collarbone.

 

“Why’d he take his shoes off, again?” Evan asks quietly. He takes a piece of popcorn and smiles when he finds it extra buttery.

 

“I think he was gonna take a shower,” Heidi murmurs in response, gunfire on screen.

 

Evan laughs to himself a little. “Wouldn’t it be terrible if he had been in the shower when the terrorists showed up?” he asks.

 

“Caught bare-ass naked during a heist? Sure.” Heidi gives a short laugh of her own, and makes a show of shoving an entire handful of popcorn into her mouth. “Wouldn’t make for a very interesting movie though.”

 

“I don’t know,” Evan shrugs again, making sure he doesn’t elbow her in the stomach, “maybe I’m just really conscious of how he could really hurt his feet.”

 

“He almost fell down a ventilation shaft and you’re worried about his feet?” she snorts, running a hand through his hair.

 

“Excuse me for being hyperaware of broken glass,” he retorts absentmindedly.

 

There’s a silence, and Evan sobers. He hadn’t even realized that was an insensitive joke to make.

 

“Maybe we should just watch _El Dorado_ again,” she mumbles.

 

“You’re not liking it that much either?” Evan asks.

 

“Sadly, yes,” Heidi sighs jokingly. Evan wonders how long she sat through it because she thought he liked it.

 

“Jared would be so disappointed in us,” he laughs.

 

“He would,” Heidi agrees, and squeezes his arm as she gets up to change the movie.

 

Yeah, Evan likes this, even if it’s a little uncomfortable sometimes. The good outweighs the bad at this point. And that’s all he ever wanted. 

 

——

Connor’s wall before had gone from a sky blue, the color his mother had had the walls painted in his nursery, to a heavy gray after he turned thirteen and was allowed to redo his room over. He had chosen a dark color, because at that point that was what he felt his life was.

 

He couldn’t see a way out of the darkness, and at that point decided to embrace it. He regretted that now. He should have asked for yellow.

 

Now, with all this light in his life, all of the things he didn’t see before because he couldn’t see past the blindness. And now he has friends, and the world seems less dull around them, and Evan, his _boyfriend_ , he still feels giddy thinking it, fills his world with color and light.

 

And he can’t help sketching it all down. Zoe’s hands on her guitar, lithe and gentle, making a beautiful sound that makes Connor so proud; even after all of the awful memories It gave her that go along with the guitar, she’s still playing, still making music, still smiling. More often than not, her smile makes its way onto his pages.

 

There are trees, moments on hikes, walks he and Evan take that he takes down in the moment, so entranced by the words that fall from his boyfriend’s lips, explaining so many things, too many things, all of which he is passionateabout. Everything about Evan that he loves.

 

There’s a stack of books that Alana had carried into the house and thumped down when she came to him for comfort, when she was overwhelmed with studying, college applications, with everything. She had come looking for Zoe, and instead found him. But that hadn’t mattered. She had talked and talked, and then cried, and sobbed, and Connor had held her until she exhausted herself and fell asleep against him. He sketched those books, the top of Alana’s head, the way her braids started, cascaded down her back. When she had woken up, she felt better, and Zoe had arrived home, and had been much more a comfort to Alana than Comfort felt he could ever be. Even so, Alana brought him chocolates the next week, and told him if he ever needed to, he could come to her to talk.

 

There are the candles from the first time Jared and Evan let him stay for their first prayer of the sabbath. It was a beautiful and peaceful time, and while Connor didn’t understand, would probably never grasp the full weight and beauty of the moment, he knew that it was the calmest he had seen his friend, with words he couldn’t understand falling from his lips, a prayer, barely a whisper. It had been a beautiful, strangely intimate moment that Connor couldn’t help putting to paper.

 

And all of these papers have, at one point or another, found their ways into his walls, slowly turning the dull gray to off-white, covered in treasured memories, images that Connor would sooner die than forget.

 

His room became a safe place. 

 

——

“Zoe? Hey, c’mon, Zo, wake up.”

 

Someone’s tugging at her shoulders, shaking her awake, and Zoe reluctantly gives into it, slowly opening her eyes and blinking once, twice, three times, until the figure above her fully comes into view. It’s her brother, dressed in all black like a fucking ninja or bandit or something and looking far more excited than anyone awake at two in the morning should be.

 

“Connor?” she mumbles sleepily, rubbing at the corners of her eyes and yawning. “What is it?”

 

“C’mon, put some actual clothes on, we’re going to the backyard,” he says, keeping his voice low so as not to wake their parents (even though they probably wouldn’t give a shit anyway). 

 

“Seriously?” Now, frankly, she’s just irritated. Why can’t this wait till the morning, when she’s had a decent amount of sleep and can think clearly? What about the backyard is so fucking important? 

 

“Hurry _up_ ,” Connor urges, throwing back her covers. Zoe hisses at the rush of cold air against her legs; their house is always freezing, even in the summer.

 

“Jesus, Connor, how are you so fucking energetic at two in the morning,” she snaps, pulling the covers back over herself, her grogginess turning her mean. “Have your new meds made you manic or something?”

 

She regrets the words the moment they leave her mouth, cringing internally at the way her brother’s shoulders slump and his hands ball into fists at his side. Zoe opens her mouth to apologize, but Connor beats her to the chase. “Yeah,” he admits quietly. “I’m having trouble sleeping ever since Dr. Richardson put me on that Lexapro last week, and I dunno, I just thought it’d be fun, we haven’t done something like this since we were kids, but you’re right, it was probably a stupid fucking idea anyway—” His tone has turned sharp-edged and rough, and Zoe hates to think that she’s the cause of it, that her stupid sleep-deprived mouth made him feel this way. She knows a part of it has to do with the state of his mental health, but still. She should’ve been more careful.

 

With all the energy she can possibly muster, Zoe pushes back the covers and leaps to her feet, plastering a bright smile onto her face. “Gimme five minutes,” she says, “and then meet me downstairs.”

 

(It doesn’t matter that she nearly falls over, like, three times trying to get her sweatpants on — anything to get the light back in Connor’s eyes.)

 

They manage to sneak out the back door without waking either of their parents — an incredible feat, really, since their mother is the lightest sleeper Zoe’s ever known — and tiptoe into the backyard. The grass is wet under Zoe’s bare feet, and it’s still disgustingly humid out, but the temperature is far less heat advisory-inducing at this time of day, and there’s a slight breeze that makes being outside actually kind of pleasant, a rarity for a Kentucky summer.

 

Connor, in a heart-melting display of thoughtfulness, has brought two towels with him, and he spreads them out in the middle of the backyard, laying down on one of them and gesturing for Zoe to follow suit. 

 

It turns out that staring up at the sky, listening to her brother point out all the different constellations, is something she hasn’t done in too long. It’s an activity Zoe didn’t know she missed, but now that she’s doing it again, she’s acutely aware of its absence over the past few years. She can’t even remember the last time they stargazed. 

 

They should do this more often, she thinks. In fact, when it’s no longer two-thirty in the morning and they’re both awake enough to make promises, she’s going to get Connor to swear they’ll do this at least one more time before he leaves for school in August.

 

“This could be our thing, Con,” Zoe says, eyes half-shut, trying desperately not to fall asleep an hour later.

 

“What does that mean? Our thing?”

 

“Like, our stupid sibling secret or whatever, I dunno. Just something we do together, that we don’t do with anyone else.”

 

She’s pretty sure she can hear the smile in Connor’s voice when he says, “Okay. Sure.” 

 

(Cynthia finds them the next morning, passed out in the backyard on two of her best bathroom towels. Surprisingly, she’s not angry. “Maybe we should look into getting you two a tent,” she says. Connor and Zoe just laugh.)

 

(It’s nice. Really, really nice.)

 

——

Despite the shock having set in when she suggested it, the moment Zoe comes off her medication, she is asking Alana when they’re going to CVS for hair dye.

 

Connor finds it cute for the most part, a little bit annoying if anything else, but Zoe has always known what she wants, and he knows he cannot discourage her from dyeing her hair. Nobody can now.

 

So it’s not surprising when Alana drags Connor down from his room weeks later, to find they’re going to the drugstore for hair dye, and they’re picking Evan and Jared up on the way. Connor knows better than to ask why they’re all going when it’s Zoe dyeing her hair.

 

She has an idea, and he’s not about to get in her way.

 

“I’m stuck between indigo and teal,” she says, seemingly oblivious to the fact that they have been standing at this display for a full five minutes, and the cashiers look scared that they’re about to try something dangerous or stupid. “Any thoughts?”

 

Jared pipes up. “Well, I want to know why we were all dragged along on your hair journey.”

 

“That’s not a color, Jared,” Zoe retorts, and then sighs. “Lana wanted to join in, and I thought maybe you guys might want to as well.”

 

Jared’s eyes widen for a moment, and he looks down at the dyes. “Would we get to do our own colors, or would we all be using what you got? Because, as close as we’ve become, I don’t think we need matching streaks to show that we’re all friends. That’s a little too cutesy.”

 

“Get your own color, I’m paying. Now, indigo or teal?”

 

“Indigo,” everyone seems to say simultaneously. There is a moment of pause before the tension breaks and they’re all laughing. 

 

~

Their bathroom is a mess, and Connor doubts that Jared’s red dye will come out of the countertop, and knows he will have to throw the bleach-stained towels out after this, and explain the stains on everything to his mother, but they’re having fun.

 

Alana’s hair has been unbraided, straightened, and surprisingly professionally ombréd by Zoe, who is now applying a royal purple to the ends of her hair, grinning the whole time.

 

Jared has created a couple of concealable red streaks that he has covered in tin foil as he watches the scene unfold.

 

Zoe has opted to turn the whole underside of her head indigo, enlisting Evan to help her part the section evenly. There are streaks of color left on her neck, and Connor can’t help but laugh at it.

 

Evan had insisted he didn’t want a color, but when Connor had caught him staring longingly at an 8-wash sky blue dye, he had taken it upon himself to march the dye up to the counter and pay for it before Evan could snatch it back. He now sits very happily on the tiled floor with the blue dye sitting over his unlightened hair. 

 

And Zoe had insisted Connor dye his hair with her, and despite his protests, he has several streaks through his long hair now that are turning midnight blue. And he can’t find it in himself to pretend to be mad.

 

Of course, not everything that’s fun is thought through all the way.

 

“Hey,” Evan pipes up. “How are we all washing this out of our hair at pretty much the same time?”

 

Connor ends up having to rinse his hair and Evan’s in the kitchen sink. 

 

——

It’s weird to be sitting with your girlfriend in the same library where, just nine months earlier, you’d previously tried to figure out a way to beat some faceless entity terrorizing both your lives. It’s weird to be sitting in that same library and acting like a normal high school student, studying for finals.

 

Still, Zoe can’t exactly complain. She’s sitting across from _Alana Beck_ , for God’s sake, the most intelligent, most beautiful, most kindhearted woman she’s ever known. She’s sitting across from Alana Beck, her _girlfriend_ , and to top it off, she’s got a Clover Caffeine caffè latte by her side, courtesy of said amazing girlfriend. How could she possibly find anything at fault with this picture?

 

“How’s the APUSH going, Zoe?” Alana asks, cutting into her thoughts. “You look a little bothered. Still having trouble with Chapter 7?”

 

“Nah, I think I got it now.” That’s not a lie, but Zoe can’t help but gnaw at her lip, a heavy feeling of guilt settling in her chest. Just like with Connor (just like with the entirety of their little group, actually), she and Alana have promised to be entirely honest with each other, but she’s not exactly being super forthcoming right now. 

 

If she looks bothered, that’s because something _is_ bothering her. Though it has nothing to do with the Public Land Act of 1796 or the XYZ Affair. And for once, it has nothing to do with It, Connor, or any of her myriad of past traumas.

 

Nope, for once, Zoe is bothered by a ridiculously normal problem. That problem being the girl sitting across from her.

 

Well, _Alana’s_ not the problem, to be exact. It’s more the fact that Alana is a senior, a senior graduating in a mere fifteen days. A senior who will be departing Cloverport for Harvard come August, moving 1,054 miles away from this awful mess of a town. Alana will be rubbing elbows with some of the smartest people in the world, snagging fancy internships, learning new languages, working towards something that actually _matters_. And Zoe? She’ll just be here, stuck in Cloverport, spending her afternoons plucking away at her guitar and struggling for that 4.0 Alana obtained so easily. 

 

Okay, that’s not really fair to Alana. Zoe knows how her girlfriend’s spent hours bent over her textbooks, studied till her eyes went bloodshot, working for that 4.0. But still, everything academic seems to come so naturally to her, and unless it’s related to music, that’s just not the case for Zoe. 

 

And what really matters is that she’s going to be _alone_. Her brother will be off to Lexington, studying art at the same institution where Evan will work towards a degree in environmental science. Jared’s headed to some prestigious STEM school for computer science. And Alana, of course, is going to Harvard. So who will Zoe have left then? A bunch of pixels on a screen over FaceTime or Skype can’t hold her through a panic attack, can’t give her their hair to braid or a hand to hold to help ground her when she dissociates. And sure, she has her band friends, she has Lizzie from sophomore-year Spanish and Kendra from AP Lang, maybe she’s more popular than all of the loser club put together, but what the fuck does that _matter_ when none of those “friends” even understand? They don’t know what it’s like to hear your brother say he wants to die. They don’t know what it’s like to watch the girl you love fall to pieces, screaming at something you can’t even see. They don’t know what it’s like to just stand there helplessly as your fingers wear down to bone before your very eyes, don’t know what it’s like to get thrown out of a forty-foot tree by a fucking _demon_ who wants to kill you. They don’t know what it’s like to, at sixteen years old, accept that you’re going to _die_ , and even worse, be okay with that. They don’t know what it’s like to go into a situation fully prepared to die for someone you love.

 

They don’t even know the half of what she’s been through. They could _never_ understand. And so Zoe knows, without a doubt, that everything is going to change when Alana, Jared, Evan, and her brother leave in August. She is going to be _alone_ , truly alone, and she doesn’t know how to handle that. She’s not sure she can cope with it, honestly. 

 

“Babe,” Alana says, very serious, and every cell in Zoe’s body wants to smile when she calls her that. “What’s wrong? I know that look on your face, you’re clearly upset about something.” She reaches out for Zoe’s hand, and Zoe gladly gives it to her, Alana’s touch always a comfort. “You know you can tell me anything,” Alana adds, twining their fingers together, eyes so earnest and warm.

 

Those eyes are leaving her in two months. Zoe looks away, her gaze falling to the cover of her APUSH textbook. She can’t lie to Alana, but she also can’t meet her eyes when she’s telling her the truth, at least not this truth, because she knows it will hurt her, and that’s the last thing Zoe _ever_ wants. “I’m just being dumb,” she mumbles. “Worrying about you leaving and stuff.”

 

Alana raises a brow, perceptive as usual, aware that there’s more to the story. “Anything about me leaving that’s bothering you in particular?” 

 

“I dunno, I guess the distance to start with?” Zoe says, chewing at her lip. “Cambridge is so far away, Lana, like _impossibly_ far away. What if you meet someone better at Harvard? Someone who’s actually smart like you, and ambitious, and cool — I mean, I wouldn’t blame you for wanting to go out with them instead—”

 

“Zoe, hold on a sec,” Alana cuts in. She’s frowning, and Zoe hates that she’s the reason why. 

 

“Up until Connor got his acceptance letter in April, he and Evan were planning on doing long-distance too, right?” Zoe nods. “And you believed in them, right?” Alana continues. “You thought they’d make it, didn’t you?”

 

“Yeah,” Zoe whispers. Alana’s not wrong — before Connor knew for sure he was going to the University of Kentucky, he’d been planning for the worst, a long-distance relationship with the boy who made him happier than anyone else. Zoe remembers how she’d had to comfort him when Evan first got his acceptance letter, how she’d told Connor that if anybody could do it, she knew he and Evan could.

 

Would Connor say the same about her and Alana?

 

“We’re gonna make it work, Zoe,” Alana breathes, squeezing her hand softly. “I love you. And you’ve believed in me from Day One, even when I saw stuff that nobody else could, so why shouldn’t we believe in us?”

 

Zoe cracks a grin at that, and Alana’s finally smiling again, too, the corners of her eyes crinkling with it. Zoe _loves_ her girlfriend’s smile, not just how lovely and brilliant it is, but how it can make her feel like, even in the darkest of moments, there’s hope. Like there’s a reason for her to smile, too. Like everything will be okay, at some point, even if it might not be now.

 

“Besides,” Alana jokes, “if our relationship survived a murderous, centuries-upon-centuries-old demon, I think it can survive a couple states, don’t you?”

 

Zoe laughs, and the sound of Alana giggling right along with her is totally worth the killer glare from the librarian up front.

 

She won’t ever really be alone, not as long as she has Alana — she knows her girlfriend will make sure of that. And she’s gonna be okay. _They’re_ gonna be okay. 

 

And so, for now, everything is okay. 

 

——

Evan has been standing outside of the local fast food place they had accosted in the middle of the night for ten minutes. He’s been counting. Only ten minutes is enough to reduce him to a puddle of anxiety, wondering if he got the date wrong, or the time, wondering if everyone had up and decided they didn’t like him anymore, and had decided to leave him there alone.

 

He has been standing outside for ten minutes when Jared pulls up and calms his fears.

 

“’Sup, Acorn!” 

 

Evan has to roll his eyes. “I broke my arm two years ago, Jared, are you ever going to stop calling me that?”

 

“Nope,” he replies, popping the ‘p’. 

 

Evan grins. He’s learned now to relax, that Jared hardly ever means anything he says to come out in a harsh or mean way. He slips up sometimes, and Evan knows he’s working on apologizing more. He tries not to take anything too personally. Tries to relax.

 

“So, Evan, I haven’t seen you at temple recently. What’s happening in your life?” There’s a joking tone to Jared’s voice, but a clear interest there. He’s trying to connect.

 

“Well, I’m in physical therapy, what with the cuts on my back, so Mom is working overtime to try and pay that off.”

 

“Physical therapy?”

 

“On account of the fact that I can’t raise my arms above about here.” He raises his arms till his hands are just about in line with his ribcage, and winces as something twinges.

 

“Really?” There is a challenge in Jared’s eye, and Evan has the overwhelming urge to prove that he really shouldn’t be raising his arms any higher, despite the pain he’d be putting himself through.

 

He raises his arms slowly, and can’t help the unearthly, pain-filled sounds that come from his mouth. Jared’s hand clamps his mouth shut.

 

“Okay, I get it, don’t hurt yourself trying to prove a point. They’re going to think I’m murdering you.”

 

Evan shrugs and lowers his arms. 

 

“How are you doing as far as studying for the English exam goes?”

 

Evan is glad to be saved from this potentially anxiety-inducing question by Alana running up. 

 

“Sorry I’m late guys, but there was the _fattest_ raccoon on my lawn, and I had to take pictures and go the long way around it because I really didn’t want to get attacked. _Look_!”

 

She holds out her phone and shows them a picture of a fairly large raccoon, taken from behind some blinds, and then another from a different angle, and a fair distance away from it on the lawn.

 

“Oh no,” Jared mutters as Evan chuckles.

 

“I just have to show Zoe.”

 

“Oh _no_ ,” Jared repeats.

 

Because as the Murphy siblings are making their way through the parking lot, Zoe’s just about running, pulling something up on her phone.

 

“Alana, wait until you see these fuckin’ squirrels!”

 

Evan can’t help but admire that speck of brown in his boyfriend’s blue eyes as he rolls them. Alana and Zoe meet in the middle, trading phones and cooing over the pictures. Connor climbs up onto the top of the picnic table and sits down there, feet on the attached bench.

 

“Alright, Jared, Zoe, rock, paper, scissors for who gets to draw,” Connor calls, pulling a beanie out of his bag. Zoe and Jared approach each other in front of Connor and prepare.

 

Evan thinks they look pretty weird, standing outside a fast food joint, cheering on two teenagers playing rock, paper, scissors.

 

Jared wins and gets to draw a name out of the hat. He pulls out Alana’s name. That means Alana has to buy the fries and burgers today.

 

“It’s okay,” Zoe says, “the girl who works on Sundays likes you better than all of us, you know that.”

 

“Yeah,” Alana agrees, “but she always tries to make me buy the three pack combo, and goddamn if she isn't persuasive.”

 

——

The last time Zoe remembers her brother being sick is when he was ten years old and she was verging on nine, and they’d both gotten hit with a nasty strain of the H1N1 flu virus, the illness the American media had dubbed the “swine flu” that had spread across the country like wildfire, surely in part thanks to grubby elementary-school children such as themselves. 

 

She’d been better off than Connor. After five days and an intense regimen of Tamiflu, she’d bounced back like nothing had ever happened, even made it to her friend Bella’s birthday party that weekend.

 

Her brother, on the other hand, had spent two weeks confined to his bed. He’d ended up going to the hospital, even, when his fever hit 105. Zoe has a vague recollection of sneaking in to refresh his book supply every once in a while, surprising him with the occasional banana popsicle (his favorite). One time, their mother had caught her and scolded her for a good ten minutes, insisting Zoe was going to get sick again (she didn’t).

 

Now, at the respective ages of eighteen and sixteen ( _almost_ seventeen, Zoe keeps telling people, childish as it is, because she _will_ be seventeen in July, dammit), Connor and Zoe have both gotten horribly sick again. This time, they’ve just got head colds, but while Zoe’s goes away after three days of pure misery, Connor is still in bed on Day Five.

 

This is particularly upsetting to him, seeing as he’s got a date with Evan today, a date that he is absolutely in no shape to go on.

 

“Connor,” Zoe sighs, perched on the edge of his bed, feet dangling off the side, “you should just cancel. I know you don’t want to upset Evan, but I’m sure he’ll understand—”

 

“No, _you_ don’t understand, Zoe,” Connor says, sniffling pathetically from underneath the covers. He sounds so stuffed up it’s almost comical, but Zoe manages to hold back her laugh. “There’s this lecture at Ellison State Park tonight, some thing on the different types of trees there or whatever, and Evan’s been planning this for _months_. He got our tickets back in, like, January. And I promised to go with him because there’s gonna be a lot of people there, and you know Evan doesn’t do super well with big crowds in a small space, and I dunno if he’ll be able to go alone—”

 

Her brother’s working himself into a panic, and Zoe can’t let that happen. She cuts him off. “I’ll take him.” 

 

Connor throws back his covers, red-rimmed gaze immediately fixed on her. “Seriously? You have to be sure about this, Zoe, you can’t just say you’ll do it and then back out last minute, he’ll totally freak out—”

 

“Chill out,” Zoe interrupts. “It’s fine. I’ll take him. It’s, what, a thirty-minute drive? Not bad at all. I won’t even ask you for gas money, since it’ll be the perfect opportunity to tell him all your embarrassing childhood stories,” she adds, throwing a mischievous grin her brother’s way.

 

“Zoe, you better fucking not—”

 

“Sorry, bro, gotta go, I’ve got a hot date with your boyfriend tonight!” she calls over her shoulder, skipping out of the room.

 

This might actually be fun.

 

Two hours later, Evan is panicking in the passenger seat of her Honda, and Zoe is a little more doubtful of this night’s capability to be fun.

 

“Look at all those cars, Zoe, _ohmygod_ I dunno if I can do this, there’s gonna be so many people, what if I ask the lecturer a question and it turns out to be really stupid or something he’s already covered and everybody laughs at me, _ohmygodshit_ ,” Evan whispers, throwing his hands over his quickly-reddening face. 

 

Zoe carefully reaches over and pries his hands apart, doing so as gently as she possibly can. “It’s gonna be fine, Evan,” she assures him. “Just think about all the cool stuff we’re gonna find out at this lecture. And who cares if you ask a dumb question, or repeat something he’s already said? I promise you will literally never run into another one of these people again in your life. Besides, I’ve got your back. Enjoy all the nerdy tree facts that my brother somehow finds so ridiculously adorable, and in the meantime, if anyone tries to be rude, I’ll take care of it.”

 

Evan’s cheeks are still flushed, and his hands are still sweaty in hers, but the worry lining his features has disappeared, and his shoulders relax, the tension in them ebbing away. “That sounds just a little threatening, Zoe,” he says, punctuating his sentence with a tiny laugh. 

 

Zoe shrugs. “Like I said, don’t worry about it.” She unlocks her car doors and turns to Evan. “Now, c’mon. Let’s go.”

 

An hour and a half later, Zoe can safely say that, just like the boy in the striped polo next to her, she is an official tree nerd. That’s somewhat concerning, given the fact that before today, she’d never shown any interest in trees beyond their capability to provide her with sheet music, but hey, it’s not the worst fascination to have.

 

They’ve had a really great time. Evan was beyond delighted to actually make it through the entire lecture without an anxiety attack, and of course he’d taken detailed notes in the little blue Moleskine Connor had given him (“ _For your writing, Ev_ ,” he’d apparently said) for his eighteenth birthday. And just seeing Evan so excited had made Zoe happy, too, because honestly, Evan Hansen’s joy is downright contagious (kind of like the swine flu, she thinks with a snicker, and then immediately acknowledges how terrible that analogy was).

 

The only bump in their plans is this: the lecture ended at 7:30 PM. It is now 8 PM, they’re both semi-starving, and they’re stuck on the freeway, an accident miles ahead having completely paralyzed the flow of traffic. Zoe’s given up on them moving any time soon, so she’s cut off the engine and rolled the windows down, thankful that it’s at least somewhat cool out. Summer in Kentucky can be truly hellish during the daytime. Next to her, Evan is quiet, curled in on himself a little as he rifles through the pages of his notebook, re-reading his notes from the lecture.

 

“This traffic sucks ass,” Zoe finally speaks up, drumming the beat of her spring jazz band solo against the side of her car with her fingers. They’ve been suspiciously tingly today, so she’s tried to keep them moving when appropriate. 

 

“Yeah,” Evan agrees. After a brief pause, he sets down his notebook and unbuckles his seatbelt, shifting in his seat to face her. “Thanks for taking me tonight," he says. “I-I know you probably didn’t want to, sorry if I was, um, a burden in any way, but I hope you had as much fun as I did.” 

 

The words simultaneously heal and hurt Zoe’s heart. It’s nice to hear the verbal confirmation of Evan’s good time, but it’s also painful to even consider the possibility of Evan viewing himself as a burden. “The lecture was awesome, I’m happy I could take you, but, um — can we talk for a sec?” She’s cautious in keeping her tone level, but Evan still stiffens at her words, clearly anticipating some kind of argument or bad news.

 

She follows his lead and unbuckles her own seatbelt, turning so they’re face-to-face. “Evan, I want you to understand that you’re never gonna be a burden to me or Connor,” she says, voice kind but firm. There’s no arguing about this, nothing about it up for debate — Evan Hansen is not a burden, certainly not to her or her brother, not to _anyone_. She leans over, grabs his hands in hers, heart breaking just a little at how he’s shaking. 

 

“You’ve been so good for my brother, Evan,” she insists. “He is one hundred percent a different person from who he was back in September, and I’m sure a part of that has to do with killing It and finally getting into therapy, but — I know, like, 75% of it has to do with you. You are _so_ good for him. I honestly don’t know how you do it, but you just, you _get through_ to him in a way I’ve never been able to.”

 

Evan’s hands are still trembling, and Zoe gives them a gentle squeeze. “You’ve brought the light back into his eyes,” she says softly. “I’ve never seen him as happy as he is around you. I’m not joking when I say you’re probably the best thing to ever happen to Connor. So thank you for that, and please don’t ever call yourself a burden again.”

 

Evan opens his mouth like he wants to say something back, but then a car behind them lays on the horn, full blast, and Zoe realizes traffic’s started moving again. _Of course. Fucking perfect timing._ She rushes to get her seatbelt back on and the keys back in the ignition, hastily rolling her window up and starting the engine. 

 

Once they’re safely rolling down the freeway, Evan breaks their silence. “I feel really lucky to have met your brother, Zoe,” he tells her. Zoe’s so proud to hear him speak without a trace of a stutter (not that that’s anything to be ashamed of, but for Evan, it’s progress — and that’s important). 

 

“I always wanted a sister,” Evan continues. “And, um, obviously I didn’t get one, but you seem to be a really awesome sister, and I know Connor’s really lucky to have you. So am I.”

 

She can’t look over at him, too focused on the road, but she does smile. “Well, thanks, Evan. I’m not perfect, but — y’know, I’m working on it.”

 

“Who’s not?” Evan retorts, seemingly surprising himself with the quick response, and they both burst into giggles.

 

“Truer words have never been spoken, Hansen.” 

 

——

As the year continues, they all become more comfortable with each other. Jared’s thankful for that.

 

If they had come out the other end being stiff and uncomfortable, he doesn’t know what he’d have done. At least he had them.

 

The day he realizes that there’s been a shift, it’s just a Thursday. Just a Thursday, nothing specific or particular or special.

 

And Jared pulls up outside the Hansen household and watches Evan exit, kissing Heidi on the cheek and calling out to her to have a good day as he makes his way to Jared’s car. And Jared’s sure he’s seen almost this exact scene before.

 

He doesn’t know why he hadn’t noticed before, but Evan’s stopped curling into himself as much. His posture has greatly improved with the slack of slumping. His stutter has receded, becoming a nervous habit, rather than a constant in his speech pattern.

 

Jared stares at him as he climbs into the car, something like dread threading itself into his very bones until everything about him feels heavy.

 

“Jared?” Evan asks, smiling, putting on his seatbelt. “Alana’s gonna worry if we’re not there soon.”

 

Jared shakes himself, not offsetting the weight, and pulls away from the curb.

 

When they reach Alana’s house, she’s saying goodbye to Jordan, as always, and waiting by her mailbox.

 

Jared doesn’t realize he’s bracing himself to see a For Sale sign until he finds himself searching for it. It’s not there. Alana climbs into the backseat, smiling lightly. “Morning, guys.”

 

There is nothing fake about this Alana, not a damn thing.

 

Jared licks his lips and can’t help but glance at her in the rearview mirror. Her eyes are not yellow. Nor are Evan’s.

 

They pull into school, and Jared tells them he'll catch up with them. They give him worried looks but walk into the building anyway.

 

Jared tries to get his breathing under control, but it eludes him.

 

He sees Zoe pull up and watches her climb out of the car. The streaks in her hair glint a little in the light. Indigo, not teal. Zoe doesn’t like teal all that much. Says it make her look like she has jaundice.

 

Connor’s soon to follow after her. His jacket is open over a red T-shirt. The sunshine yellow socks that Evan bought him for Christmas peek out over the top of his boots. He spots Jared and waves, his dimple popping as he smiles.

 

Connor says something to Zoe, who also waves to Jared, and then he heads over to the car, leaving Zoe to wander into the school.

 

Connor climbs into the passenger seat. His smile fades, replaced with something a little more soft, but still worried. “You look spooked,” he comments, closing the passenger side door.

 

Jared swallows the lump in his throat. “Nah, I’m fine.”

 

“May I offer you a Xanax, O Master of Hyperventilating?” he asks, a joking tone on top of the deepening worry on his face.

 

“I don’t need it,” Jared replies.

 

Connor quiets. Jared thumps his head into the steering wheel a few times.

 

“Okay, I probably need it. But I also need to get something off my chest,” he allows.

 

“Hit me with it,” Connor says, pressing his back to the door and his boots to the seat. Jared wrinkles his nose in disapproval but doesn’t comment.

 

“The night before we killed It, It locked me in the bathroom.” He says it in a breath, so fast it could be missed by someone who wasn’t paying attention. But Connor is paying attention. And he looks furious.

 

Not at Jared. On Jared’s behalf. And that would scare him more if It wasn’t already dead.

 

“What?” he says, fury clear in his tone.

 

“Yeah. And then It showed me a universe without It.” Jared huffs a laugh. “Which, coincidentally, was a universe without me.”

 

The fury changes. It’s sadness now. “Oh, Jared.” It’s in Connor’s eyes. Jared looks away.

 

“It showed me all of you — doing so much better than you were then, happy, colorful. And, this morning, I think I saw a version of that universe. Like, Evan, being confident and comfortable as himself, and Alana not being scared, and being okay, and Zoe with the streaks in her hair.” He has to take a deep breath. He didn’t expect it to be this hard to say. Maybe it’s because he kept it locked up for so long. “But you, you were the most accurate. This exact outfit. And you smiled, and you laughed, and at the time, I thought it was impossible, because I didn’t want there to be a place where you could all be happy without me, because maybe I’m a lot more dependent on you than I thought and… and…”

 

Jared wipes angrily at the tear that trails down his face. “So, you’re scared something will happen to make it a reality?” He looks up to see Connor assessing him carefully. “That you won't be here, for some reason? That we’ll be happy without you, for some reason?”

 

“Yes,” Jared chokes out.

 

“I can assure you that that will never happen,” Connor replies firmly, reaching forward to take Jared’s scarred hands in his own. The burns made the afflicted skin go lighter, so it’s very clear what’s healthy skin, and what’s a reminder of their ordeal. Jared’s scars are a little more subtle, embedded in his knuckles and the length of his palms, on either side of his pinkies. “We wouldn’t be here without you, much less happy without you, and if something ever happened to you, I’d burn down the world to find who did it to you.”

 

“Really?” Connor squeezes his hands. Jared imagines this is what it must always be like for Evan. This unending support. Jared pushes the flash of jealousy away. It doesn’t mean anything, anyway.

 

“Really, Jared,” Connor says. He shakes his head, obviously trying to make sense of it in his own head. “It never showed you the truth. This is the truth. We love you, and will protect you, and we can be happy with you, just as much as you can be happy with us. Got it?”

 

And Jared can’t help but smile. “Yeah,” he agrees, letting go of Connor’s hands to take off his glasses to wipe at his eyes. He replaces them a second later.

 

“C’mon.” Connor jerks his head in the general direction of the school building. “We’re gonna be late to class.” 

 

“Hey, Connor?” Jared asks as Connor pulls away.

 

“Yeah?” he answers, opening the passenger side door and hopping out, messenger bag thumping against his hip.

 

“Thank you,” Jared says.

 

“You’d do the same for me,” Connor replies assuredly. “Now, c’mon.”

 

Jared stuffs his keys in his pocket, grabs his bag from the backseat, and follows Connor into school, feeling a lot calmer than he has in ages.

 

——

Zoe wants to blame Jared Kleinman for the coffee she spills all down the front of her shirt just an hour before the ACT, but honestly, she’s just a klutz who apparently can’t handle an iPhone and a cup of coffee at the same time.

 

However, it _is_ Jared Kleinman’s increasingly-panicky voice speaking into her ear as she walks over to the back of Clover Caffeine to grab a stack of napkins. 

 

“Honestly, Zoe, fuck my life, my fucking piece of shit car just broke down on Fifth Street, and I’m fucking stuck on the side of the road here literally less than an hour before the ACT and I don’t know what the _fuck_ I’m gonna do—”

 

“Jared, calm down,” Zoe urges him, quickly switching the phone to her other shoulder before she starts to dab at her shirt with a napkin. Hopefully the strong scent of coffee will have died down within the next fifty minutes. “Look, I’m taking the ACT, too. At the middle school, right?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Okay, so let me just finish up what I’m doing right now, and I’ll be at your car in, say, fifteen minutes. And then we’ll both make it to the ACT on time, and when we get out, you’ll buy me a coffee to make up for the one I just spilled all over myself trying to answer your call,” she says. 

 

“Oh, shit, sorry—”

 

“I’m just fucking with you, Jared, really, don’t worry about it. See you in fifteen.” Zoe hangs up the call and looks back down at her shirt, grimacing. Yup, this is the kind of stain that a bunch of cheap napkins will definitely not be getting out any time soon. 

 

Maybe as payback, she’ll make Jared switch shirts with her.

 

“Thanks for doing this,” Jared says twenty minutes later (she may or may not have spent another five minutes attempting to clean her shirt in the café bathroom), sliding into the passenger seat of her car. “I called AAA, and my dad’s on his way right now to go sit with the car and wait for them. I figure nothing too bad can happen in the five minutes in between, right? I mean, it’s _Cloverport_.”

 

“Ah, yes, because nothing bad ever happens in Cloverport,” Zoe deadpans, turning right onto the road to the school. 

 

She realizes she’s said something wrong when, instead of a snarky remark, she’s only met with silence, and she glances over to find Jared stiff and stoic-faced next to her. Zoe makes a mental note to not discuss bad things happening in Cloverport again — the past three years of her life have obviously shown her that bad things do happen here, _awful_ things, and trying to joke about them doesn’t mean she’ll get to wake up one day and not remember. She has to remember, will battle the memories of those years on a daily basis for as long as she lives, and judging by his reaction to her comment, Jared obviously feels all too reminded of that.

 

Sometimes she forgets that Jared suffered more than she did. Sometimes she forgets that It tore apart his life for seven years, and that her mere three years of pain seem measly in comparison. Her therapist always tells her to not turn her demons into an English class, urges her to stop making Venn diagrams in her brain of her story and the stories of those around her, to not compare and contrast her trauma with others’. Still, Zoe can’t always resist, particularly when it comes to one of her friends. She knows Jared’s history in and out by now.

 

Jared’s not a huge fan of apologies, so Zoe simply switches the subject. “Trying to get that perfect 36 today?” she asks, stopping at a red light.

 

A smirk appears on Jared’s face, the life instantly coming back into him. “You say that like it’s hard,” he teases, then quickly sobers up. “Nah, I’m just trying to get a 34; that’s what I need to be competitive for that computer science internship at my school, apparently.” The mention of the internship seems to worry him a little; Zoe can see it on his face, in the way his eyes drift to his shoes, the way his entire body seems to coil with tension again.

 

The light turns green, and she presses on the gas. “Well, I’m sure you’ll do great,” she tells him, the middle school approaching in the distance.

 

It’s only when she pulls into the parking lot that Jared speaks up again. “Yeah, we’ll see,” he says. “I’m definitely no Alana Beck, just stupid old Jared Kleinman here, so. I dunno. Fingers crossed.”

 

Zoe puts the car in park and turns to her friend. “Jared, you’re not stupid,” she insists. 

 

He rolls his eyes, pushing his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. “Okay, sure, Zoe,” he mutters, reaching for his bag. “I’m not stupid, which is why I didn’t get into MIT, and why I’ll probably fail epically on this ACT and never get that fucking internship.” 

 

Jared tries to get out, but Zoe pulls a move that would make Connor proud and locks the doors. “Hell no, Kleinman, you’re not getting out until we’ve talked about this.”

 

“What the _fuck_ , Murphy — ”

 

Zoe doesn’t let him finish. “Jared, you are _not_ stupid, not in the least. You’re one of the smartest people I know, in fact. I mean, you got straight 5s on your AP exams last year — not even Alana did that,” she says. “And without you, I wouldn’t have made it out of the orchard that day. You helped Alana solve the riddle — It would have killed me if not for you. So excuse me if I happen to think that you’re pretty damn amazing.”

 

Jared is quiet, not daring to speak, but Zoe can see in his eyes that her words have gotten through to him. She reaches over and squeezes his shoulder. “We’re gonna rock this test, dude. I believe in us.”

 

A tentative smile grows on Jared’s face. “Thanks. I believe in you, Zoe Murphy.”

 

“And I believe in you, Jared Kleinman,” she grins, unlocking the car. “Now c’mon. Let’s go kick some ass.” 

 

And that’s exactly what they do.

 

Jared gets a 35.

 

——

It takes Jared an embarrassingly long amount of time to realize the thing It stole from him that he’s missed the most.

 

His friendship with Evan.

 

Before the yellow eyes and laughter came, before Jared learned to pretend to hate the world around him so they wouldn’t see that all he really hated was himself — before all that, what he and Evan had was _good_. Great, even. He’d spend entire weekends at the Hansen house, Heidi scheduling shifts off to make them special superhero pancake breakfasts, decorating each and every pancake to look like their favorite characters. If Jared wasn’t home when his father got home from work or when his mother returned from one of her weekly trips to Pier One, they knew to call Heidi Hansen first — and that’s usually where Jared would be. When Evan’s mom had to work long nights, Evan would stay with him — Jared can recall many a Sunday where his mother had led prayer for them, and everything had been so calm, so peaceful, so _happy_. He remembers the way Evan’s scar, still pinkish back then, would almost glow in the candlelight.

 

They depended on each other. Evan didn’t trust many people in this world — his father had left him, the other kids at school made fun of him for his stutter and shy temperament, even his mother often let him down without meaning to due to work circumstances — but Jared, Jared Evan knew he could always trust. They’d clean each others’ wounds, bandage scraped knees, hand out popsicles if the playground bully got a little too rough. And they stood up for each other — Jared found himself sticking up for Evan more often than not, since his anxious nature made him an easy target, but he remembers when he’d first gotten glasses in fourth grade, and Brian Harris had thought it’d be funny to convince everyone in Ms. Jensen’s class to call him “Four-Eyes the Freak”. 

 

And Evan, eyes wide and fists curled into little balls at his sides, had shouted at them to stop. Even punched Brian in the nose when he wouldn’t stop; received a two-day suspension for it, much to Heidi’s chagrin (though, Jared had heard, she’d given Evan a high-five when she found out the real reason for the seemingly unprovoked attack). 

 

But then It had wormed its way into his life, and nothing was ever the same. Instead of making Evan’s tears go away with corny jokes and bad Marvel impressions, Jared became the source of them. Instead of bandaging Evan’s wounds, Jared only made them worse. Instead of being his friend, Jared became his enemy.

 

And sure, maybe he’d fought alongside Evan in the orchard that day and has attended many a movie night or burger run with him now, given him too many rides to count, but Jared still feels like that all hasn’t really been resolved. And he’s not quite sure if it’ll _ever_ be resolved. How do you make up for six years of cruel taunts and mean spirited jokes? How do you make up for the near-complete erasure of an entire friendship? How do you make up for abandoning your friend in more ways than one when he needed you most?

 

A week before graduation, having already completed his senior exams, Jared is feeling restless. It’s hot outside, and all his demons seem to be crawling down his neck today, his lost friendship with Evan bothering him more than anything else in particular. And Jared usually doesn’t have the best instincts, can never really read a room or figure out the right timing for stuff, but half-past noon, he sits up in bed and reaches for his phone, because he knows. He _knows_ what he has to do.

 

Evan picks up on the first ring and starts to stammer out a confused hello, but Jared doesn’t let him finish.

 

“Be dressed and ready to go out in fifteen minutes,” he says. “I’m coming to pick you up. And make sure you wear sneakers.”

 

He hangs up before Evan can ask any questions. 

 

~

“Where are you taking me?” Evan asks, brow furrowed, as Jared merges onto the freeway.

 

“You’ll see in thirty minutes,” he says simply. “Pick what station you want on the radio, by the way. Connor was the last one in here, and I don’t know how your boyfriend is so obsessed with that godforsaken country music, but I can’t stand to listen to it any more than I already have to.”

 

“I think it’s more of a sick fascination rather than an actual liking for it,” Evan replies, lips turning up into a wry smile as he fiddles with the radio.

 

Thirty-five minutes later (Kentucky traffic can be unpredictable sometimes), they’re pulling into the parking lot of Ellison State Park, and Evan’s staring at him like he’s some sort of Greek god.

 

“Jared, you hate trees—” he starts.

 

“No, what? Trees are, like, my favorite thing ever, Hansen, fuck _Portal_ ,” Jared says, waving away Evan’s protests. Evan’s right — he doesn’t like trees, remembers plenty of Kentucky summers filled with red, itchy tick bites thanks to afternoons spent standing under said trees with Evan — but if he wants to repair this friendship, Jared’s going to have to start learning how to be a little less selfish.

 

At Jared’s urging, Evan leads them to his favorite oak tree, a sixty-foot-tall beauty whose aesthetic Jared can appreciate. He snaps a couple pictures and sends them in the group chat to share with Alana, Connor, and Zoe, who are all still stuck at school in exams. They settle under the canopy of the oak tree, which does provide some relief from the white-hot burn of the sun, and, after a few minutes of silence, they begin to talk.

 

Evan’s first. “Um, honestly, Jared, this is nice and all, but I don’t really get why you’ve brought me here?” he admits, his voice pitching up in uncertainty at the end of his sentence.

 

Jared knows the answer to that, but it’s still difficult to get the words out. “I just — I want to be a better friend to you, Evan,” he confesses. “I know I’ve been pretty shitty for the past few years, and you — you deserve better, okay? And I miss how we used to be, as sappy and pathetic as that sounds. You were my best friend, and then It came and ruined everything, and it’s just never been the same. And I hurt you, a lot, I let It make me into someone I didn’t want to be because I was _scared_ , I was a fucking downright wussy, and I’m sorry. But I want us to be good again. And I hope you’ll let me work on being a better friend to you. Because I know you deserve better than me, I’m a fucking loser and a nutjob, but—”

Usually, Jared’s the one to interrupt, but this time, Evan cuts him off. “Jared, you don’t need to apologize,” he says softly, eyes warm and bright. “I think maybe we’ve both hurt each other because of It, and your way of doing it was just more obvious than mine — I mean, I wasn’t always there for you when you were having trouble sleeping because of your nightmares, either, so. We both made mistakes. If you want to work on yourself and the way you treat others, that’s fine, but — Jared, you’re still my best friend. You never stopped being my best friend.”

 

Jared’s cheeks hurt with how wide his grin is. “Really?”

 

“Really,” Evan confirms.

 

And maybe, Jared thinks, if they keep making memories like this under them — maybe he can start to like trees.

 

——

When Mr. Mancinelli first hands her the sheet music, Zoe kind of just looks at him, tilts her head and stares at her teacher like he might be crazy. 

 

“Did you want me to pass this to Kelsey, Mr. M?” she asks, already twisting around in her seat to grab the sophomore guitarist’s attention.

 

“No, Zoe. I’m giving you the solo,” he says, slowly but firmly. 

 

Zoe simply sits there, dumbfounded, for a good minute at that. It’s not that she doesn’t have the skill for a solo — she knows she has it in her, especially since she’d been forced onto the stage countless times last year after Dayna P. quit and left her as the only guitarist (Zoe sends a silent prayer up at the thought of the dead girl). But if she’s honest, her heart hasn’t really been in jazz band as of late. Although It wasn’t around to bother her after October, the ghosts of the attacks and their impact on her are still a major part of her life, and she’s taken countless mental health days this year, whether at the urging of her therapist, her mother, or Connor. As a result, her performance in the band has deteriorated, and Zoe doesn’t harbor the illusion that her teacher hasn’t noticed the decline in the quality of her participation.

 

“I—I don’t understand,” she eventually manages to stammer out.

 

“You’ve had a difficult year, Zoe,” her teacher tells her, voice kind and surprisingly sympathetic.“And we both know you’ve hit some bumps in the road along the way, but at the end of the day, you’ve been here when this band needed you.” Zoe’s taken aback by the tears that well in her eyes, and she does her best to wipe them away without Mr. Mancinelli noticing. 

 

“You did a job made for two people last year,” he continues, “and even with the days you’ve called out this year, you’ve still managed to miss less rehearsal than any of the other members. I’d be a fool not to reward you for that.” He smiles and thumps the cover of her sheet music. “Not only are you a wonderful guitarist, Zoe,” he adds, “but you are resilient, and I’ve seen your potential. Now is the time for you to show everyone that.” 

 

So Zoe doesn’t pass the solo to Kelsey.

 

A month and a half later, Zoe stands in the wings of the auditorium with shaking hands, guitar strap digging into her shoulder, surrounded by dozens of other band kids, all clad in formal wear. She’s gripping her sheet music so tightly that she’s almost worried she might rip it, so she forces herself to relax her grip as much as she can.

 

She wants to do well; she wants that so badly. She’s worked non-stop on this solo since the moment Mr. Mancinelli handed it to her back in May; Connor can attest to that, since she’s slipped out of the house for hours at a time to go practice alone, not wanting anyone in her family to hear the piece before the spring concert.

 

She just wants to make them proud. She wants to prove that she can be more than the broken little sister, the fragile daughter. She wants to feel like she’s got something that is truly hers, something that can help her figure out who she really is after It left her identity in pieces.

 

“And now, I am proud to present to you the Cloverport High Jazz Band!” Mr. Mancinelli’s voice booms from the stage.

 

Zoe takes a deep breath, smooths the hem of her dress, and follows her classmates onstage.

 

An hour later, the concert is nearly over; the piece with Zoe’s solo is the final song of the night. The notes that come just before her cue ring out in the air, and Zoe’s fingers hover over the strings of her guitar, readying herself.

 

Then she feels a tingling in her pointer finger, and she momentarily forgets how to breathe. _Of course it’s not over, of course you didn’t really kill It, all your worst nightmares are going to come true now and you’re going to bomb this solo —_

 

Somehow, in the haze of panic, she’s able to lift her head and search for comfort in the audience. Thankfully, the faces of her friends are the first she lands on. _“You’ve got this, Zoe,”_ Jared mouths at her, Evan flashing her an eager smile, Alana beaming as well as Connor gives her a thumbs-up and a nod, like he’s saying, _“You can do this, little sis.”_

 

_You can do this,_ Zoe tells herself. _You can do this._

 

She inhales, lets her mind blank out, the music she knows better than she knows herself replacing her thoughts.

 

And then she starts to play. 

 

When all is said and done and they’ve all done their bows (plus encore!), Zoe practically skips off the stage, mindful of her guitar, the joy buzzing in her veins leaving her feeling buoyant. She packs away her guitar and music as quickly as she can, and when she emerges from the band room, basically sprinting into the main hallway, Alana’s there to meet her, Zoe’s family and the boys hot on her heels.

 

“You did so well!” Alana says happily, surprising her by taking her in her arms and spinning her around. Zoe laughs, and Alana giggles right along with her, finally setting her down when they both start to get a bit dizzy. 

 

“I’ve got to get home and take care of Jordan, but I’ll see you first thing tomorrow for breakfast, okay?” Alana gives her a quick kiss on the cheek, and then Zoe’s waving her off, watching her girlfriend’s figure disappear through the double doors of the school and into the night. Like always, a small part of her prays that she’ll make it home safe.

 

“Good job, Zoe,” Evan says, coming up and hugging her. Zoe’s heart swells when she realizes she hasn’t heard him stutter once tonight. She thanks him for coming, and he and Connor chat for a brief moment about their plans for a date tomorrow before he’s off, too. 

 

“You kicked ass, Murphy,” Jared grins, “just like I knew you would. In ten years, when you’re all famous and shit, I’m gonna tell everybody I was friends with Zoe Murphy.” She chuckles, and Jared claps her on the back awkwardly (he’s still adjusting to the affectionate part of their group friendship), then heads out to his car.

 

Now it’s just her and her family. Her mother is the first to take Zoe in her arms, squeezing tightly. The scent of rose perfume fills Zoe’s nose. “I’m so proud of you, sweetheart,” her mother murmurs in her ear. “We all are.”

 

Those words hit her like a punch to the gut. “Really?” she breathes, pulling away from her mother. Her father and Connor both nod, and Zoe can’t recall ever seeing her father’s eyes shine like that.

 

“You were amazing, Zo,” Connor tells her. “Way better than that poor asshole on the drums, anyway. I don’t think he was on the beat longer than five seconds.”

 

“Connor!” her mother scolds, but it’s too lighthearted to be serious, and they all end up laughing.

 

“We’re proud of you, honey,” her father reaffirms. 

 

And suddenly, Zoe is filled with a feeling she’s never experienced before. It’s like what she feels for Evan when he manages to order pizza and speaks to the delivery guy, what she felt for Alana when she got a perfect score on her SAT, for Connor when he came out of his first therapy appointment, for Jared when he got a $20,000 scholarship.

 

She knows that feeling is pride.

 

And for the first time, Zoe realizes, she is proud of herself.

 

She could get used to this feeling.

 

——

Somehow, the orchard is back in bloom, only nine months after the great evil that had infested it was destroyed. So of course, a picnic is deemed necessary, a way to celebrate the end of high school for the boys and Alana and another year completed for Zoe. Jared’s mom packs them a nice kosher lunch, and Mrs. Murphy provides the (needlessly fancy) picnic basket. The five of them pile into Jared’s dented sedan, and he’s finally got the car in park, Zoe’s the first to jump out, skipping down the path alone for a few moments before waiting for Alana to catch up. Connor and Evan follow, Connor holding the picnic basket, Jared staying back to lock the car and then running to meet them, wedging in between Evan and his boyfriend with a devious grin on his face. Eventually, they’re at the front of the line, Zoe and Alana slowing to examine a patch of wildflowers. 

 

As Evan takes in the scene before him, he can’t believe he somehow managed to get this lucky. At this time last year, Zoe Murphy and her brother didn’t even know who he was, his friendship with Jared was lukewarm at best, and Alana Beck only intimidated him. Worst of all, Evan couldn’t even string a coherent sentence together around anyone other than his mom, Dr. Sherman, and Jared. Now, his life is so different, and there are definitely moments where Evan might get a little delirious with it and think that maybe, just maybe, this happiness is worth the ten years of torture, worth the scars on his arm.

 

He knows that It has left permanent marks on his soul, and Evan is well aware that he will never be the perfect child, nor will he probably ever be a psychiatrist’s definition of mentally healthy. But he has Connor, he has Zoe, Jared, and Alana, and he has his mom. He has an acceptance letter to the University of Kentucky and a whole future waiting for him.

 

So Evan’s okay with not being perfect. 

 

Just being Evan Hansen is enough.

 

~

Holding Zoe’s hand, Alana can’t help but notice how much the orchard has changed, even since they cut down the willow. It’s healthier, the air feels cleaner, where it had been stifling when It had lived here. Alana can’t help but feel her spirit lift as they walk through the trees, Evan, Connor, and Jared ahead of them, Connor carrying the basket.

 

Zoe curls herself into Alana’s side, and she sighs happily. Everything is perfect here, calm and theirs since they took away the last symbol of It having lived here. This is their space now. Her space, hers and her _friends_ ’.

 

Alana has all she could ever have hoped for, and she wonders how she got so lucky.

 

~

Jared doesn’t avoid mirrors anymore. If anything, he’s more aware of them. Something changed, in between the first day of school and sitting in the Murphys’ bathroom with tin foil on his head like some conspiracy theorist who was scared of aliens reading his mind.

 

He doesn’t worry himself with what his friends think of how he looks anymore, and Jared actually really likes that. Zoe throws another grape and Jared hurls himself backward to catch it in his mouth. Alana keeps saying he’s gonna hurt himself if he keeps being so dramatic about the activity, but she’s laughing along with the rest of them.

 

Jared likes this laughter; it’s lighter, and more human than the laughter he was so used to. He likes it when his friends laugh, because he knows, good and well, it’s not at him, it’s with him. He’s not afraid of being himself around them.

 

Jared really likes this, he thinks to himself, giving the orchard a quick look-around, sunlight dancing through the leaves, warmth on his skin and in his veins. He really loves them. And for the first time, he’s really okay with that.

 

~

It’s a good day for a picnic, Connor thinks, tilting his head up to the sky. He can’t remember the last time he actually went outside and enjoyed nature, but he supposes it was a little harder back then to appreciate the world around him when there was always the threat of it all just fading to black.

 

Now, he takes in the sun, soaks it in, wants to take in as much of this moment as he can. He wishes, for a moment, that he’d brought his sketchbook, but he knows that he would have spent the entire time sketching, and none of the time with his friends. And that’s where he needs to be right now.

 

They settle in a sunny clearing where, at the bottom, a full creek can be found, and the stump of an old willow tree, with the words ‘ _The Loser Club_ ’ scratched into it. Trees stand tall and proud around them, and he sees the delight in Evan’s face as he looks up at them, and he knows that by the end of this trip Evan will have climbed up at least one of these apple trees.

 

Connor is calm, and it is a feeling he has learned to appreciate. 

 

~

Even as she basks in the smiles and laughter of her four favorite people in the world, Zoe is still cognizant of the fact that they’ve all still got quite the long road ahead of them.

 

Connor is still trying to find the right balance of medications. Alana is still working to develop anything more than a distant relationship with her father. Jared is still battling a whole host of self-esteem issues, and Evan is still dealing with severe anxiety. Zoe herself is still attempting to learn how to live with the trauma that It inflicted on her without her friends constantly by her side, since they’ll be leaving for college in August.

 

But, as she’s learned over the past nine months, struggling doesn’t mean failing; hard days don’t equate to wasted days. The process of recovering from three years of suffering is not always going to be easy, and Zoe has accepted that by now. More often than not, it’s an uphill battle, but the time she’s spent with her merry band of losers has taught her that the battle is always, _always_ worth it. She gets through her worst days, because she wants to see Connor’s latest sketch. She gets through her worst days, because she wants to feel the warmth of Alana’s stunning smile, because she wants to hear Evan ramble excitedly about his environmental science program and listen to a myriad of bad puns from Jared.

 

And best of all, she gets through her worst days because she now knows that she deserves to see the best days. She deserves to be happy; God only knows she’s fought hard enough to live to see today, however difficult it is, and she’ll keep fighting, as long as she needs to.

 

Somehow, through 1,185 days of pain, It helped Zoe to find her true identity.

 

She’s not the jazz band guitar soloist, nor is she her brother’s protector, not anymore.

 

Zoe Murphy is a fighter. _That’s_ who she is.

 

And that’s something she can proudly say.

 

~

They’re not completely recovered yet — maybe they never will be — but they’re on the road to recovery. And that’s enough.

 

And they are happy. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, I guess I'm here to say a whole bunch of thanks. This was our longest chapter yet, sitting at over 26,000 words, because we need some good healing at the end of this angst fest. 
> 
> So first I want to thank (the academy) all of you guys, the readers. Without you guys, we probably would still have written this, but we would probably have been a whole lot less motivated. For that motivation and drive, we owe you big time. I think we paid up with this chapter. 
> 
> I really want to thank my co-authors, my dear sister nosecoffee, and my honest to god best friend (without ever having met you irl), ls201. You guys are incredible, so supportive, and so funny. You keep me going. I'm really looking forward to working more with you guys.
> 
> We will be writing more together, so keep an eye out for another of our works. And keep the other eye out: it might become a series of different creepy-ish works. 
> 
> Without further ado, I pass the mic on to my co authors.
> 
> ~
> 
> Sup. This is nosecoffee. Y'all would not believe how excited we are to share this last chapter with you. Almost more excited than we were to share the fic with you, in the first place.
> 
> When I came to my coauthors with the idea, it wasn't fleshed out, and I only really had the vaguest idea of what I was doing. However, with their brilliant ideas and amazing writing, this wasn't scrapped as a dumb idea, and we got to put this out.
> 
> For the readers: thanks for looking at this fic, even though it looked weird on the outside, and was confronting. For those of you who left comments, thank you, especially, because they seriously motivate us, and make us feel like y'all actually care about the writing we put out.
> 
> For my coauthors: thanks for not shooting me down, and probably for being more invested in this, at times when I passed out. God knows y'all took the brunt of it, by the end, there. You're both amazing, and this wouldn't have been half as good as this turned out if I'd tried to do it on my own.
> 
> And now, y'all reading this get the absolute privilege of hearing from the gorgeous and incredibly talented ls201
> 
> ~  
> Hi y'all, it's ls201. I have a lot of thanks to hand out, so bear with me for a moment while I do that.
> 
> First, thank you to nosecoffee. Not only are you incredibly talented, beyond hilarious, and an amazing friend to boot, but this fic never would've happened without you. Thank you for having enough faith in me to share your idea and make me a part of your group, and thank you for trusting me to help you write this fic.
> 
> Thank you to HamiltonTrash. You are an absolutely incredible friend and a wonderful writer, and it's been a pleasure working on this fic with you. Thank you for commenting on my fic that day in May; it's crazy to think that none of this would have happened if you hadn't.
> 
> Finally, thank you to the readers. Thank you for your endless support, your kudos, your bookmarks, and, of course, your wonderful comments. I smile every time I read the words you leave for us. Thank you for trusting us with these characters who are so near and dear to your hearts (just as they are to ours), and thank you for believing that we could finish this work. Thank you for tuning in every 2-3 days; thank you for losing sleep (although that's not recommended!) to stay up and read chapters, thank you for subscribing, thank you for noticing all the little details and picking up on all our subtle hints and clues.
> 
> I have loved every minute of working on this story, and it will be my pleasure to share our next work with you all. But until then, I wish you all the best of luck in all your endeavors and nothing but happiness. I hope you've enjoyed.
> 
> xo,  
> L

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! If you liked this/if this gave you chills or whatever, please leave a comment and/or a kudos, and do let me and my coauthors know if there's a typo or a content warning we forgot.
> 
> You can find me and HamiltonTrash on Tumblr @nose-coffee and @cake-snake.
> 
> Again, thanks so much, see you on the next chapter!
> 
> \- Lou


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